The Proposition

Coffee

He looked down at his dry, cracked hands on the table top. They were calloused and worn by four decades of manual labor. When he looked at his fingers wrapped around his coffee mug, it was as if he saw them for the first time. They were not pretty, and he was embarrassed. He raised his mug to his lips and took a sip of the hot coffee, then he put his hands in his lap so that they were hidden. He looked at her across the table and spoke, his voice rough and his throat dry.

“I’m an old man, Mary. I lead a simple life. Why would you want to be a part of that?”

The woman smiled weakly at him and met his gaze and his question squarely. “I’m tired of being alone, John. Every person I’ve ever known has treated me like crap except for you. I meet people every day who want to take something from me. They want to make their lives better by making mine worse. My mother died when I was just a little girl, and my father died about ten years ago, when I was fourteen. I have no brothers or sisters or cousins. I’ve been on my own for a long time. I can take care of myself. I’ve had to learn that. But I’m tired of not having anyone to talk with - to share things with.”

He looked down at the table, unsure what to say or do. “I’m not sure what you’re looking for, Mary. I’m an old man. I’m retired. I’m boring. I spend my days tinkering around with toaster repairs for the neighbors, and making birdhouses for the school benefit auction. You would only be bored to death hanging around a guy like me. What you need is to find a nice young man who you can settle down with. People aren’t as bad as you think.”

“Yes they are. Look at me, John. I’m no movie star. I’m not a model. I have big hips, and a big nose, and my teeth are crooked. Guys see me as the woman they’ll hit on last, after all the other women are gone and the bartender’s calling for last call. Other women see me as antisocial and brash. I’m not good at making conversation. Guys are not beating a path to my doorstep. People don’t want anything to do with me. I’m just the cashier at the convenience store to them. They just want to pay for their beer or gas and go away. People don’t want to talk with me. People don’t want to know me.”

She looked across the table at him and dared him to rebuff her again. Her eyes were moist, but she wouldn’t let herself cry. Besides, she thought, she was more angry at him for telling her ‘no’ than she was upset at how her life was turning out. It wasn’t turning out the way she’d thought it would, that’s for sure. But that wasn’t his fault. It was hers. She’d been dealt a rotten hand in life, and on top of that, she had made poor decisions.

“Look,” she said, taking a deep breath, “You’ve come into the convenience store every day since I started working there when I was sixteen. I used to see you come in with your wife. I read the papers. I know she died a few years ago. I’ve seen you come in with your son, in his car, with California plates on it. I see you at the coffee shop and I see you at the grocery store and I see you around town. You’re always alone. Just like me. I think you need a friend as bad as I do.”

He looked up sharply from his coffee and thought about denying it. Sure, he missed is wife. It had been almost three years since she’d given in to the cancer that wrecked her health. He missed his son, too. But his son had a life of his own, and it didn’t involve this dumpy little town in upstate New York, and it didn’t include this grumpy old man who had never seen eye to eye with his son since the day he had been born.

“What you’re proposing is kind of awkward,” he said. “It’s not a big house. There’s not a lot of room. People would talk. There’s only one bathroom. There’s not a lot of privacy.”

She shook her head, as if to brush away his comments and concerns. “I don’t need a lot of space. You have two bedrooms, right? Your house is the same as every other house on that street. I’ve been in a few of them from time to time. I don’t take long showers. I don’t have a bunch of girlie cosmetics to clutter up your bathroom. I’m a simple girl. I just need someone to share dinner with, and talk about my day with.

“For eight years, John, you’ve bought a newspaper at my work. You always get in my line, even when there’s nobody in line at the other register. Every day you buy a cup of coffee. Every day you put the change in the tip jar. And every damn day you smile at me. Every single day. That means something to me. It tells me you’re a good person, John.”

He ran a rough hand through the few hairs remaining on his head. “It just seems kind of weird to me. How could I repay you?”

“You don’t have to. This is something I want to do. I’ve eked out a simple life for years because I had nothing to spend money on. Look at me. I’m not blowing my paycheck on fancy dresses or manicures or fancy restaurants. If your wife’s medical bills put you as far behind in your taxes as I think they did, you need this. You shouldn’t have to sell your home. You shouldn’t have to move into a dumpy little apartment. That’s just stupid. Let me help you. I need a place to stay. You need to pay your taxes. We’re both friendless. It makes perfect sense.”

He shuffled his feet under the table, but a smiled crossed his lips at last. “I’m not a very good cook. I eat a lot of scrambled eggs.”

“I love scrambled eggs, John. And I like to cook. I’d be happy to cook for you. I don’t like washing dishes though.”

“Oh, I don’t mind washing dishes. It’s kind of therapeutic. Maybe this will work out after all.”