In These Arms

He saw it first in the sag of her shoulders as she was walking to the car. Then he saw it in the slow of her stride. Finally, she was in the car and he could see it course from the top of her forehead to the tip of her chin, centered around eyes that didn't want to see any more.

Through most of the ride to the coffee shop, she didn't say anything and he wasn't sure how to start in. He was there for her even in this silence and she knew that, so he waited and gave her time and space.

And then a crack, a cleft, a whispered expletive.

"They threatened to fire me today."

"There was this guy on table twelve. He pesters me for what must've been ten minutes with questions about fish dishes - how is the bass prepared, is the salmon wild or farmed, how fresh is the cod, what kind of sauce, what kinds of vegetables, what kind of sides. He asks about substitutions and alternate preparations and I keep telling him the chefs will accommodate any request but he just keeps asking away."

"So like I said, ten minutes of this and I know my other tables need servicing. Some of their plates are ready and I was on my way to grab a refill for number nine when this guy grabbed me, telling me he's ready to order."

"I keep trying to get away but every time I say, 'I'll be right back' he says, 'oh, just one more question.' I keep standing there, smiling and answering and I keep glancing at the kitchen where I can see my pickup dishes getting cold. Finally, I tell this guy that I have to serve my other customers and I'll be right back to answer any more questions. He starts in on his 'just one more question' bit and I say 'I'm sorry, excuse me' while backing away towards the kitchen."

"I grab the plates for seventeen and the refill for nine and I'm making my way back to service my tables when I notice the guy is gone. At first I'm relieved but then I see him on the other side of the restaurant talking to one of the managers, pointing a finger directly at me."

"Seventeen sends their plates back because they're cold. They're pissed, all my other tables are pissed and I'm scrambling, trying to put out all these little fires when the manager stops me, pulls me aside and. . ."

They never make it to the coffee shop. Instead, he pulls into an empty parking lot and they sit on the curb.

And he lets her go -- on and on about unreasonable customers, about petty inter-staff politics, about managers who have all the empathy of a dead battery. As she talks he can see a bit of life welling up within her again as if each word takes a bit of weight with it as it's spoken.

And then a corner is turned. She's out of words and he's out of suggestions. This won't get resolved tonight.

So he takes her hand, weaves his fingers between hers. With a firm, confident grip he lifts and they stand. He brushes away a stray bang from her forehead and tucks the strand behind the curve of her ear. He draws her to him, gently at first and then with purpose.

She wraps one arm around the small of his back and with the other she presses his shoulder into her cheek. And he reciprocates, drawing her closer still. With this she feels the last of her tension lift away, expelled by the pressure of this embrace. All this tactile information floods the synapses and somewhere deep within the old, primitive part of the brain, something loosens and all her defenses disappear. She discards all composure and cries with rushed, open abandon, like a racehorse down the final stretch. She pounds her fists into his back.

And then it's over.

She slackens and instead of holding her close, he's holding her up.

And weightless, in these arms, she wonders how she ever got on without him. And he wonders what use he ever was to anyone before she needed him.