Lunch with Terry

Terry is tending the bar today. I like Terry, though I don't know her terribly well. I like her because she has so many positive traits. She's fast, efficient, friendly, courteous—everything one could ask for in a bartender. She never has a negative comment about a co-worker or customer; at least, not that I've ever heard. She isn't bothered by people who ask dumb questions. She tries hard to be helpful to everyone around her. If that's not enough, she's nice looking, very fit, lots of energy. She's bright, likes to talk, is always in a good mood. She is definitely on my A-list. So I feel bad when our conversation—but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Terry struggles with a problem in her life now; I won't discuss it here. I think sometimes that she works hard (and works out hard) partly to get away from it. Yet it seems never far from her mind. Today as I sit at the bar Terry tells me about an elderly couple that she saw crossing the parking lot. She saw a lot more in them than I realized. Maybe she saw a lifetime of love, a friend who is always there. Maybe she saw a family growing up and growing old together. I don't know what she saw. She tells me about seeing them, then she turns and walks toward the open end of the bar. "How did seeing them make you feel?" I ask, wanting to understand. She reaches the end of the bar, pauses, turns partly toward me, as if to answer. She stands there silently for a few seconds, wanting to answer but unable to answer, or not daring to answer. Then she turns and quickly disappears into the kitchen.

She is gone a long time. When she returns to the bar she is very quiet. I, too, am quiet. I feel responsible, in some vague way, for whatever pain she just felt. I should have known that it was not the old couple, but the loss of something precious in her own life, that had caused her to comment on them. But now there is nothing that I can say. And there is nothing that Terry can say. She mixes drinks and washes glasses. I look across the room to the traffic flowing down Electric Road.

I return later that evening and sit at the bar, sipping a beer. Stupid, maybe, but I feel the day would be incomplete without at least trying to say something to Terry. I want to tell her that I understand, that she shouldn't feel weird about what happened. And though I want to tell her, I'm really not sure if I should or exactly how to say it. But Terry has already left for home. I drink one beer. Then I, too, leave for home.