The Boy at the Cafe

I was reading Plainsong quietly at my own table, not really aware of or concerned by those around me. But there was something about their entrance that disrupted my thoughts. They were a small family - mother, father, and a son who couldn't have been more than thirteen - with a story about them that became more intriguing than the book.

They chose two tables, side by side, but, unlike most patrons, they didn't slide them together. They stood apart, about two feet, and the family was separated between them. The boy sat at the window, but he didn't face out to watch the passing cars or the construction on the other side of the street. Instead, he starred into the cafe at nothing with an expression so pained I couldn't stop watching his eyes. His brow was furrowed as if he had just lost something elemental, something imperative to his existence, his eyes unfocused and unseeing. His round cheeks puffed up beneath his eyes making them appear as if they were sliding back into his skull from pressure or lack of will.

His father, back to me, began to sit at the other table with pained movements. He lowered himself down onto the wooden seat by supporting his weight with his right arm crooked behind him on the chair back and his left pressed palm-down into the tile-topped table. Before he was halfway down his wife brusquely suggested that he should sit at the other table, with the boy, so that he wouldn't be in the way of foot traffic.

"This is fine." He uttered, barely audibly to me in the din of the lunch rush.

"It would be better over there." Her expression was severe.

"It doesn't matter to me." He continued his slow descent and sighed lowly, hunching his shoulders and resting his weight on his legs and off of his arms.

The boy's expression never changed. He was not watching his father. The woman sighed, apparently deciding that the battle had been lost. She turned her attention to her son, picking up the empty, waxed paper glass from in front of him. "Do you want something to drink?" He nodded. "Coke?" A slight tilt forward of the head. "With only a little ice?"

"No ice." He muttered.

She instantly slammed the glass on the table in front of him, her vehement expression returned. "I won't do it without ice."

His eyes never even glanced up at her face before he stood in a reverse rendition of his father's descent with less physical pain, picked up his glass and headed for the soda machine. The woman busied herself with gathering utensils, napkins, and the drinks for herself and her husband.

The boy returned to his table and lifted his focus, making eye contact with his father. "Is it always this busy in here?" He muttered and then his gaze drifted away to some point in space between the two tables.