I was standing in the wrong place, as you know, but, really, it was for good reason.
You don’t know me, but the last time I was here, the line started on the other side, which is to say, the last time I was here, I had someone to wait in line with. In any case, it was raining.
I wasn’t cold, if you were wondering; the water from this sky, in this country, doesn’t hurt.
Maybe it was my glasses. The way I plucked them from my face to wipe them on my jacket. It’s not a very graceful motion; people always tell me my glasses are too loose for my head. People also tell me that I spend too much time looking for things that don’t exist. That I look at things too closely. That I look into things too much. You don’t know me, but we both wear glasses.
Maybe it was my glasses. The way I pushed them back on, fingers never leaving my face entirely, as if my fingers had asked the rain for something and were waiting for a response. As if the rain were something gentle, something soft enough to look at, if not touch. As if the rain outside this noodle shop were anything but.
In any case, it must have looked like I was ready to spend the rest of my life doing that one action over and over again. As if rinse-repeat, only the rinsing never really stopped. And so, maybe, if you were watching, you counted me doing that enough times to believe me if I said, “I never want to stop.”
Even if I didn’t say anything, maybe, you thought, I was never going to stop.
I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t going to stop.
And, maybe, this did something to you because you had kept your own glasses dry. I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t stolen a glance in your direction, you standing at the front of the line.
In any case, I made my way to the back. That was where I meant to wait, anyway.
You don’t know me, but before you went inside to eat your dinner, you walked to the back as well. You gave me your black umbrella, told me to just leave it outside once I was done with it. You left before I could really say much. My version of “much,” anyway. You don’t know me, but that happens often.
And so, I said, “Thank you,” which was about ten percent of what I meant.
What I meant was, “I appreciate this.”
What I meant was, “You didn’t have to do that.”
What I meant was, “The rain doesn’t bother me anymore.”
What I meant was, “Today was the first time in two weeks that I haven’t cried.”
What I meant was, “I wonder if you had a nice day.”
What I meant was, “Sometimes, I don’t want the things other people think I deserve.”
What I meant was, “You don’t know me, but I hope somebody makes you feel like they love you.”
By the time it was my turn to go inside to eat my dinner, you were sitting alone, eating quietly, listening to something I couldn’t hear. I thought about reminding you that I had set your umbrella outside. I thought about telling you that it was nestled in a corner, tucked away from the other black umbrellas because I didn’t want someone else to take it by accident. I thought about just saying hi.
But you were sitting alone, eating quietly, listening to something I couldn’t hear. You looked happy by yourself—happy enough by yourself for me to feel awkward about approaching you, anyway. You don’t know me, but that’s what people think when they see me eating alone too. In any case, I didn’t talk to you after that. The rain had stopped by the time I left the noodle shop.