ON TECHNOLOGY

Today, in the food court of my favorite urban shopping center (but not my favorite single court of food) I met a beautiful new friend. “Friend” may not be the best terminology here, as she was singularly direct and, as a result, unforgettable. Our relationship began rather brusquely.

“I told you to go ahead and put the chicken in the fridge to thaw”, she said in a manner most uncharacteristic with the fragility of our acquaintance. “Yes, I did…. What? Well, that’s fine, but what are we supposed to eat until then?”

I really didn’t have an answer for her. In my embarrassing density, I had missed the cue outlining my responsibility for our collective nutrition. Not today. Not with such short notice. Before I could suggest she try the Panda Express, (which was, as usual, excellent) she interjected.

“Honey, I told you last week that I would be in a meeting until late. I was hoping to just be able to grab a quick bite and then go.”

I was taken aback. Her frivolous use of the endearing “Honey” was so off-putting (and perfect – why must we always dance with formality when life is so short?) that I was hesitant to remind her that she was mistaken. I didn’t speak to her last week. Did I? She had reason to be a bit terse if I had wiped that encounter from my mind. How could I forget that? I searched frantically for something appropriate to say. Perhaps I could absolve myself gently, so our budding friendship could grow without the tint of such an embarrassing miscommunication. It was too early to throw this away on such pettiness, no?

“Well fine, then. I’ll meet you at John and Martha’s around nine, and we can just leave straight from there. Yeah. YES. I’ll get a snack on my way.”

What in the hell was she talking about? John and Martha? Surely she must remember that Martha moved from Boston last spring. I didn’t even know that Martha had moved back to the city. No one let me know. Must be this John character. If she’s living with him, anyway. I understand. Regardless, I was afraid to ask my new friend about the specifics. I couldn’t. The lines of her face were too soft. Her hair veiled her features like gauze over a painting, her mouth a rumor too vague to address.

As I watched, she raised her left hand and swept her hair behind her ear, revealing a single black earphone. The slithering wire, now exposed, ran unabashedly down the curve of her neck, over her breast, and disappeared from my view around her far side. What music could she be listening to at a time like this? Verdi perhaps - to fit the season. Or Dvorak. She looked more like a Dvorak. Or possibly some jazz. Nothing fancy. Some Coltrane, or Davis. A flitting, framing score to our conversation.

“I’m afraid Martha’s moved away,” I said. Low. Sincere. My voice best suited to signal my sustained interest in her while gently awakening her to her errors in assumption. “I don’t know where Martha lives anymore.”

She smiled at me then. Pristine, like she was seeing me for the first time in that moment. Her left hand pressed again to her ear, directing the sonic assemblage soothing her ear to play a little louder. She understood the emotive qualities of a good soundtrack. I wish I had thought of that before.

“I’m sorry, baby. I lost you there for a second. What was that?”

I cleared my throat gently and spoke again. Stronger. The steadiness of my voice surprised me, given my weakness of stomach. “I believe Martha’s moved away. Perhaps we could just meet at Park Street?”

I couldn’t bring myself to be so bold as to use her terms of endearment. That was it, really. What was so attractive about her. Her directness. She cut to the quick. Elegance. And here I was, floundering in my little pool of ineptitude.

She was shaking her head now, as if watching a metronome. “I’m sorry”, she said laughing a little, “it’s a little loud in here. What? Oh, I’m still at Copley –pause- Yeah. Yeah. I know….”

What? Jeezus. I knew where she was. Did she think I was blind? That would explain her lack of eye contact. Perhaps her sighted eyes couldn’t gaze at the blind, for fear of making them jealous.

I moved my head slightly to the left, hoping something in my gaze could reassure her that I was indeed sighted – that her every move was not wasted in this cacophony of commercial display. I was watching. I was listening. Still, her powers of concentration worried me a bit. Her thoughts wandered. Her speech patterns a bit unusual. I faded in her distance.

“I guess I’ll see you then, hon. Yep. Yeah. Sure. OKAY. Okay, bye.”

Huh. Her speaking style did leave a bit to be desired. No accent though. And she was a good smiler. A minor objection to an otherwise faultless creature. Like eating honey from a wooden spoon - the sweet eased the rough.

She stood. In one motion, she turned full towards me, swinging her bag onto her shoulder. Panic rose sour in my throat. Was she leaving? Our plans were hardly firm.

She looked at me again. A curious smile revealed the pink of her tongue, the wetness there reminding me that I was incredibly thirsty. I cocked my head, squinting my eyes to implore her to say something more. My dry lips parted just enough to begin voicing my concerns. At this, she smiled wider, exposing her teeth. A freshness rose through her cheeks again, as though we had not just met. She turned and slid past my chair into the aisle.

I could smell her shampoo, and suddenly knew what I should have realized many moments before this one.

“Park Street,” I whispered to her back. She turned, almost startled, that blank pristine smile still tied to her cheeks as she disappeared into the melee near the beeper kiosk. Her shoulders told me I was right.

I wouldn’t keep her waiting.

Aaron M