Bob and Weave

Food

24 Food It was growing dark at the Capitol Café. Outside, cars passed through our straight faces in the window’s glass. Our eyes met and you glanced away. An old man in the street looked up, and his face merged with mine, smoker’s squint, week-old beard. He took a step and for a moment his face was in yours, your blond hair to the shoulders, your slim upper body, his face twisted by some vision beyond the help of sex or prayer. Our food came, and I remembered the time we stopped for a man who’d fallen drunk in front of our car. We helped him up, drove him to a house he said was home, left him sitting on the curb. I think you remembered too, but this night we stared at our food until it was gone, 25 heads bowed and mouths chewing, nothing new to say to each other. We split the check and paid. Outside, the man had found a shadow and slid down against the wall. Now that we could hear his voice, we could not make sense of the words. But I was sure it was a woman he spoke to, the impatient, disbelieving tone, rage without teeth. Was he deranged, or only drunk? This night we had no car. A cop would give him only more grief. Should we stand him up, escort him to the nearest cab? He took a swing at you, kicked out at me. You slipped a ten into his pocket. We stepped away, turned our backs, kept on walking, until the growl of his voice sank into the sound of passing cars. Your hand curled around mine and held it tight. ...