Loosely Based on Reality (A Drama in One Part)

The glass door swings open unceremoniously and she is immediately swallowed by an all too familiar smell. As it fills her nostrils she fights the reflexive urge to heave. She wonders briefly why people are compelled to seek out this smell. Why so many people find it calming, even comforting. How so many people manage to inhale it without retching. She expels the air from her lungs in an effort to purge her body of its unwelcome guest. She fails.

Waiting patiently for her turn, she smiles at the irony. Paying for a service she does not want. She does it anyway. She always does.

She slowly sips at the beverage she has always despised. She finds it more appealing than her other options. Perhaps that is how she has convinced herself she can consume it. Perhaps that is why she has subjected herself to it on countless occasions. Perhaps next time she’ll order a cider.

She watches the two men that flank her. The short, blonde one amuses her. He is uncomfortable in his skin – this is readily apparent. He twitches nervously and laughs constantly. Checking his phone for the fifth time in two minutes, he looks up and meets her gaze. Embarrassed, he shoves it back into his shirt pocket. She knows he puts it there so that he will feel the vibration. He wants to leave. Almost as much as she does.

The man to her right is more at ease. He is in his element and comfortable with both parties. He has no one to impress, and therefore impresses neither. They didn’t expect him to.

The men talk of trivial things. Sex. Politics.

“It was the first time I tried it. Before then, I had thought God wouldn’t approve.” He demonstrates with his hand. She wonders if the other patrons are watching. She wonders if God has changed his mind. She doubts it.

“I came into the election impartial. I’ve made up my mind through study and research.” She knows he’s lying. He votes the way his best friend does. The words he spews have come directly from someone else’s mouth. His lips don’t form them correctly.

As the men continue their banter, she reaches into her pocket. She withdraws the knife she keeps there for occasions such as these. Removing the jacket from her now stone-cold beverage, she begins to slice and shave.

Their eyes wander in her direction briefly before landing back on each other. It is as if she does not exist. She doesn’t mind. Existing is overrated.

The men begin to reminisce. A small part of her wishes she had something to offer the conversation. A pearl of wisdom. A note of interest. She has neither. Instead, she focuses her attention on the rapidly dwindling source of entertainment between her fingers.

As she whittles away the final piece of cardboard, her eyes scan the immediate surroundings. She removes the white plastic and digs the knife into it. It slides in easily. Much more easily. Intent on staying within the lines, she barely notices when they mention her.

The blonde one asks his companion if he minds that she never speaks. He says no. She wonders why he didn’t say that she does. That she speaks when she has something to say. That she finds speech is most effective when used sparingly and not merely as a replacement for silence.

If she spoke, she would tell the blonde man that it doesn’t matter if God approves. It matters only if he does.

If she spoke, she would tell the blonde man that his vote is as pointless as they come. That the uninformed are worse than the apathetic.

If she spoke she would tell him she can see through him. That she knows his mind is in his pocket, waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for his invitation out of this place.

The place she never wanted to be to begin with.

But she doesn’t speak.