he sits across from me and tries to pretend i’m not there. empty cups and awkward moments amongst strangers; cushioned in the closeness of the anonymous crowd.
i look at his profile, all eyes elsewhere and the silent ‘la la la’ of him makes me laugh. out loud; long and free and merrily. he cannot help it, his head jerks sideways and the words fly out of him on the breeze of ego and anger, “you are always laughing at me. stop laughing at me!”
i chuckle more softly and shake my head, “i never laughed at you. i am forever laughing at myself seen in you. you think i’m laughing at you because you are forever kicking yourself and thinking yourself deserving of mockery and laughter.”
he doesn’t understand, of course. different languages. i may as well be clucking at him, or mooing. either would likely be more effective. certainly less threatening. it makes me laugh again…i remember when everything i heard was a challenge; a sharp stick upon tender places. i was an untamed, feral fool back then.
then, i laugh harder, because over time, i’ve managed to tame myself and am less feral, but i am still most assuredly a fool.
he doesn’t get it. that i am laughing at myself. ego, arrogance, pride, and fear. because i laugh in what seems to be reaction to him. inside, i used to cry for it, but not anymore. i used to think it important that he never saw my tears. i used to think he took entirely too much pleasure in them and for wrongful reasons. i did not want to be one who exhorted him to continued wrongful acts.
that makes me laugh again. yet another glare. i giggle and pick up the tab and walk it to the counter and pay it. return a spot of cash to the table for the tip and stand there a moment, looking outside at traffic. he thinks i agreed to meet him here because i wanted to make him change his mind. i forgave this of him long ago. i agreed to meet him here because he asked me to meet him. it is of no consequence to sit here and be who and what i am and be painted once more by the brush of his views and thoughts.
i do not think he realizes that it no longer matters and i suppose he wouldn’t be able to see the differences, since they’re inside me. it’s liberating, though. to no longer be tied to it. to be able to sit, cushioned by anonymous throngs and let his sad, angry glares be no different than the sunshine.
i look down to him, “it doesn’t matter. i adore the sunlight.” he snorts, “you’re mad.” i nod and smile congenially and say nothing. like i said, it doesn’t matter.
i am standing on the sidewalk, staring at the ripple of sunlight on the tree across the street. i do not recall walking outside. but it doesn’t matter. the movement of sun on leaves is a pattern of symbols and signs that i recognize. i laugh, a giddy, happy, full and bubbling sound. the stranger walking by looks to see what i’m laughing at and i grin to them, ‘it’s nothing, really… just sunlight on leaves.’ they nod and smile and walk on.
i turn to walk home and there, on the corner, stands the farmer. reaching him, i loop my arm through his and we walk together for a time in contented silence. eventually, he asks, “how did it go?” i nudge at him playfully, my shoulder knocking his and my head dipping for a moment to nuzzle at him, “it went.” he chuckles at me and i wink to him and there’s nothing more to be said, just comfortable pacing along the street, homeward bound.