Disappointed

I'd finished two sections of my club sandwich when I looked up and saw her.

She was seated alone, maybe seven feet away. She poked away with the fork in her right hand, at what appeared to be a chicken-caesar-salad. She wasn't coming up with much. So she must've been there some time. When Paul leaned to his right to reach the sweetener, she suddenly appeared -- directly in my line of vision.

Paul got his sweetner. I got this sweet sight for an old man's eyes. Maybe late fifties, slender, about five foot-six. Hard to tell, her sitting down. Soft-square-shoulders in a tight, dark-brown zippered jacket. Orange scarf neatly folded for a one-inch choker. Primly erect, her left hand clutched the cotton napkin in her lap. Rings? Couldn't see. And it was driving me crazy.

I leaned casually to my own right. Her dark-beige skirt revealed slim knees above nicely rounded calves that terminated at primly crossed ankles. Shiny hose and dark-brown pumps. At this three-quarter angle, I could still make out the smooth side-lines of her rounded bottom. Nice.

Suddenly she looked up. Caught my eyes on her. Paused just two beats, then looked down at her salad and then away to her right. I glanced over at Paul and continued our conversation: "I think he's gone cowboy on us. Despite his typical smoothness, he sounded like Bush. Same old arguments. I'm convinced he's wrong."

Paul grinned, then said to Dennis in mock surprise: "It talks. It loooooks elsewhere. But it deeeew talk!" I could see he was just dying to file a report on me. But for the time being, he withheld our secret from Dennis.

Couldn't be more than 110 pounds. Close-cropped blondish-brown hair -- streaked some, but tastefully understated. Quietly classy.

Paul was looking up at me expectantly: "You're quiet! Didja listen to his speech last night?"

Without moving my eyes I responded: "Whose speech?" His eyes shot to Dennis, and they both grinned and shook their heads in unison. That's how we are. Tight friends. Oooold friends. Can practically read each other's minds.

I made a stern face. Tried to look professorial. The look that always made both my students and colleagues laugh: "Toldja! He's gone COWBOY on us! Who believes sending more troops in'll bring 'em back? 'Scounter-intuitive. But he's half-right. They'll come back in caskets."

In that precise moment Paul noticed my eyes were focused behind his left shoulder and started to turn. A quick negative shake of my head tipped him off, and he sat tight with a nutty grin on his face: "Never mind us, Bob. We're just gettin' usedta more coalition troops in Afghanistan."

I wrinkled my nose at him: "You better get used to it. I'm getting old and crotchety. I remember Vietnam too well. Who can believe his exit date? Or that fighting in Afghanistan will somehow clean out Pakistan?" During this quiet dissertation I never took my eyes off her once.

Suddenly she looked up and caught my eyes on her. My eyes darted away. I felt my face and neck flush some. But my eyes found her quickly again. She had such a pleasing face. I couldn't, didn't wanna look away. I found her with my eyes again.

Then she caught me again. We just sat looking into each other's faces. No more cat&mouse. Was she teasing me? Couldn't tell. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly, and her nose wrinkled. Not a lot. Made her look really cute, though. Made me think she was teasing me.

Her grin was barely perceptible. Just made her look nicer. Maybe mildly interested. Not sexy or anything. It wasn't like she was shopping. Or flirting. It was like when I am discussing something with my graduate students. And my eyes are moving from student-to-student, selecting and holding two-three beats on each face. Holding the eyes, maybe a beat too long, giving the impression I am only talking to each student in turn. An old-dog trick. Drawing each one in and holding him with me.

That's how it was with her. We looked and held, then looked away. Then looked back again. She led me. And the more she did, the more comfortable I became. It wasn't like rudeness. It was like admiring the portrait of a beautiful woman in an art gallery. The way the eyes mysteriously look back. As if the lady in the frame is sure of herself -- gives me permission.

So I looked. She moved her eyes away a second or two. Then looked back as if she wished to hold my eyes. Whatever she wanted was okay with me. She could have my eyes. It wasn't lechery. Don't think that. There was something so fetching, so quietly nice about her appearance. Looking at her just didn't seem wrong. Looking at her seemed smart. She was the loveliest thing in the room.

The rest of the bustling room vanished. Only her face remained, came into focus, seemed nearer than I knew it to be. I sat mesmerized. No sounds. No movements. Just that wonderful face.

Then her head tipped back and she smiled this quiet smile and nodded. Suddenly the waitress was handing her the bill. Then the waitress was gone. And I saw her left hand. NO RINGS!

Now she was studying the bill. Her eyes narrowed slightly. I knew she was quickly figuring the tip. She lifted the strap of her purse, reached down and found her wallet. She pushed back her chair, stood and shook her garments lightly into place. Next she laid crisp bills on the table, slid the chair in, and turned toward me.

Two easy and graceful strides and she was beside me looking down into my face.

I leaned back and looked up into her face: "I didn't mean to be rude."

She smiled softly: "I didn't mean to either. You look quite like my husband. He died six months ago." She looked away a moment. I thought that might be the first time she had said those words to a stranger. I remembered the first time I spoke words like that to a stranger. How I struggled to pronounce them correctly -- as if my lips and tongue were wooden. How I tried to slide them out smoothly. Tryna make them sound okay. And how they weren't.

Almost without thinking, I heard my own quiet words. Almost a whisper, but audible: "I'm so sorry for your loss. I know how that feels. My wife died 18 months ago. Not easy. . . ." My voice trailed off.

Her nod was barely perceptible. We both extended hands, as if on cue. She took my hand firmly: "I'm so sorry for your loss."

Then she turned, and was gone. I hadn't even had the presence of mind to stand. To introduce myself. She had caught me by surprise. I didn't even know: Had she seen me before my eyes found her? Had I taken big-old gobbly bites of my sandwich? Had I chewed with my mouth open? Crumbs on my sweater-front or in my lap?

Like that: she was gone. I looked wildly about. Fought the crazy impulse to run outside and look for her.

NO! She was irretrievably gone. Intuitively, I knew I'd never find her. It was too soon for her to be found.

I took a deep breath. Sat down. Let slip a long sigh and found Paul's eyes across the table. I knew we both felt severely disappointed.