vignettes

I

A woman sits at a wobbly table in an urban cafe. The top of it is covered with post cards from foreign countries. She's waiting for someone. A man on a bicycle rides past wearing a woman's straw hat. It has a large plastic daisy on it which makes her think of Sundays in East Atlanta; black ladies climbing out of shiny Cadillacs on their way to church, everything matching - purple with purple, pink with pink, heels, belts, purses.

She is joined by a quiet companion. Will he remark on his bloody mary, her mimosa? Keys are exchanged. The scene ends simply. Everything left unsaid passes between them in silence, spilling out from their eyes. No one notices. A man at the table beside theirs continues to work on his crossword. Sips his coffee. It's only a moment. She pays the bill, gets up and walks out. There is no bell on the door to mark her exit.

II

Years earlier the same woman, a girl then with shorter hair, undresses hesitantly in an all-but-bare room. There's a mattress on the floor and a man on it in fetal position, wailing. She doesn't know why. Somewhere in her child-head she imagines her sacrifice can relieve his pain. She exists in a world of raw potential - vague notions and possibilities, magic and love. She still believes she can change things; she just doesn't know how.