Can You Picture Them?

The gentleman with the papers; I call him a gentleman because no such name would encompass the regal, respected manner with which he carries himself. The gentleman with the papers keeps his thick silver rimmed bifocals tucked sturdily behind his ears with rubber bands. He arrives each night at the same coffee shop at the same time each day, in the city of a million dreams, dressed in a gray suit with black suspenders The suit is just dirty enough to realize it hasn't been dry cleaned in a long time, and just baggy enough to know his stature was once more grandeur. On special occasions, he wears a bow tie. Tonight he does not have a bow tie on. He carries with him a stack of loose papers, tied together with tweed string as if it was a sacred package. On top of the stack of papers is an old book, with yellowed pages and a title faded with time and use. When he finishes his salad, his sandwich, and bread, he refills his coffee and stands at the picture windows in the front of the shop, for exactly 20 minutes. He stares out the window, people watching, contemplating life, mentally preparing for his work ahead, perhaps even reminiscing on old times. Upon returning to his table, he unbinds the loose papers, removes his quill pen from his suit coat pocket, retrieves a blank un-lined page, and begins to write. The man with the paper fills his pages with the most beautiful and eloquent script; the kind our grandparents can recreate as they spent countless hours hand writing romantic rhetoric of times to come and times gone by. I like to think he comes here waiting for his long lost love; that he waits at the window, seeing her face in every passing woman, hoping with all his heart that she will return to his life. The gentleman with the papers is not writing his life story; he is urgently transferring his heart and soul into each word on each line.

“The Lady of Diversey” is what I call her. Her makeup is thickly applied, slightly off hue, and it hides a tint of gray sadness in her face. She wears the smile of a once glamorous and probably stunning city woman, who has been fighting the city, time and gravity with all she has. The Lady of Diversey has wild hair! It is whispy and light, and the kind of white-blond only achieved when old age beats hair-dye. Her dresses are the best of the 1980’s prom collection, complete with ballooned sleeves and large bows on the back. Some are deep green with a slight sparkle, some are all black as if she is in mourning, and some are Barbie pink. She looks happiest in the pink. The Lady of Diversey comes to the same coffee shop at the same time each day in the city of a million dreams. She sits in the comfortable cushioned lounge chairs at the front of the store directly in front of huge picture windows looking to the street. Friends stop by to chat, she twitches as she sips her bright pink lipstick stained coffee cup, and she hobbles in three inch black heeled boots on her way to and from the bathroom. Lately she sits alone. I wonder if she is waiting for the gentleman with the papers, and he for her. She comes during the day, he comes during the night, just missing each other; each one not waiting long enough or not arriving soon enough.