Some Things Need to be Said

"Can I sit," the girl said, taking the seat beside me.

She had her arms around a young woman who held her pocketbook over her head as protection against the rain.

Some Things Need To Be Said

by Robert Aquino Dollesin

I caught a flick some years back with an old friend who was home from a stint in the Army. We'd dated some in high school, but nothing serious. Waiting for the bus afterward, a sudden downpour forced us to duck into a crowded coffee shop. We sat near the door, ordered lattes, then passed the time getting up to date on each other's life.

Evidently, my friend had been married once. But it didn't work out, lasting less than five months. His ex, he said, was a slender, long-legged Eurasian beauty he'd met at a casino. The relationship flamed right up. Just like that, though, he had to tamp the fire out, because of something he didn't want to talk about.

The door to the coffee shop opened and a woman stepped in looking lost. She was short, overweight, and had on a rain-soaked halter. Her dripping rose-colored skirt clung to her thick thighs.

Truthfully, she looked insanely comical.

I looked past my friend and made some unkind comment regarding the woman. Perhaps something about her soaked, shoulder-length red hair, or maybe I made a joke about the rainwater puddling at her feet. It's hard to remember. After all, this all happened a few years back, when I was still young and single and kept myself in much better shape than I do.

My friend glanced over his shoulder. He sank lower in his seat and whispered, “That's her.”

The woman spotted us. She grinned, crossed the room, grabbed an empty chair from the table next to ours and sat herself down between me and my friend.

“Marcel?” she said to my friend. “What a surprise.” She leaned forward and water dripped from her face onto the table.

The skin around my friend's eyes and mouth crinkled like a walnut, and his pale face dropped down to stare at his hands, which were shaking while turning his cup of latte round and round.

I started to get up, saying, “Maybe I should leave you two alone.”

“No!” Marcel said, taking hold of my arm, gripping it hard.

Marcel's ex looked at me. She smiled and said, “Stay. Please. I'm sure Marcel's told you a lot about me.” She offered me her wet palm. “I'm Colleen.”

I shook her hand and told her my name.

Marcel said, “Why are you here, Colleen?”

Colleen didn't answer him. Instead, she addressed me, “You known Marcel long?”

“Old friends,” I said.

“He's got lots of those,” she said, laughing.

Marcel raised his cup of latte and took a sip. He put it back down on the table, and turned his head to gaze at the rain striking the window. Without facing Colleen, he addressed his ex, saying in a hushed tone, “I thought you were still in Vegas.”

Colleen chubbied her cheek with her tongue, and stared at Marcel a bit. Then, she shook her head, gestured the waitress over and ordered a black coffee. Marcel asked for another latte. I glanced at my watch, started to get up again, and said, “I really have to get going.”

“Bring her a latte, too,” Colleen told the waitress, smiling to thank her.

“Really,” I said, shaking my head. “It's getting late and I have a class in the morning.”

“Sit!” Marcel's ex said.

Stunned, I sat. I looked at my friend, Marcel, and saw he was trying not to squirm.

For a long time, nobody at the table said a word. Even after the coffee arrived, we all just sat sipping from our cups and listening to the rain hit the window.

Finally, Colleen cleared her throat. She placed her hands together and began to wring them.

And for the next three hours, speaking to neither Marcel nor me, she told us why she was here. Evidently, there were a million things she needed to get off her chest.

After she'd talked herself out, Colleen sighed deeply, crossed her arms on the table and buried her face in the crook of them. I could hear her crying. Then, as suddenly and unexpectedly as she'd showed up, Colleen stood, said goodbye, and left the coffee shop.

Marcel and I sat there through one shift change. Although we didn't say much to each other, we drank coffee and let our minds work things out. At just past two in the morning, we shook hands on the sidewalk outside. He went one direction, I went another.

I've never seen Marcel since. Nor have I ever again run across Colleen.

So why am I telling you about this? Because this morning I spotted my ex with another woman. She is younger, prettier, shapelier than me. Perhaps they're nothing more than friends. Maybe they're much more. Who knows? If I were to be honest, I'd say I don't care, really, about who he sees. In fact, I wish him all the happiness in the world.

What I care about, though, are all the things I left unsaid when we called it quits. Not realizing until after he was gone, just how many things I needed to say.

So I'm ten yards behind them, my ex and his new girl. They've just squeezed past a crowded entrance into a well-known diner. I sigh deeply, push my bangs out of my face and follow.