Unspoken Messages

"Are you ready to order, or shall I come back."

I think so. Yes, I am ready to order. Myself, order myself, reorder my molecules and begin again. Ha, I laugh at the odd approach to the simple word. I imagine a game of chinese checkers with the marbles rolling around until they hit their little circles and stay put, all in order.

"I'd like a mocha, please."

There is a swirl of air currents after the young man as he leaves. He is in such a hurry, but he has nice eyes that look kind. He is not impatient. I see he is moving from table to table, looking for missing forks, unfilled glasses, and guests who need more coffee. He is attentive and quick, and his eyes are warm.

I twiddle my iPhone and look at yesterday's images, taken when I was sitting in a different diner, sitting across from red leather and gleaming chrome, polished steel, a room without life but colorful nonetheless. I look around this room and listen to it.  There are voices nearby, but I cannot hear words. I look at the walls, the pictures hanging askew on the wall, and hear the distant bustle and clang of the kitchen workers.

The flowers in the vase on my table are bright and cheerful, dying to get my attention. Ah, dying. Yes, unfortunately dying little bit by little bit, small degrees of loss of their vitality. I look at them very carefully. It used to be that the colors of flowers and the blossoms themselves spoke messages from a person who gave them to the one who received them. Red always represented love and passion. Roses, daisies, irises and chrysanthemums all had their implicit meaning, conveying something far beyond mere words.

I lean in and wonder what this bouquet of bright life means, what message I would have known if I had lived a hundred years ago.  I fiddle with the flowers, touching their soft petals and delicate coolness. I pull out a few withered and spent pieces. Ah, they are dying to tell me something? A small feeling of their desperate signaling overcomes me. I lean in and detect - fragrance? No. Just beauty, simply beauty standing silently in a vase, quietly perfect.

The young man brings the cup of mocha and sets it before me. His eyes again. I see the warm life in his eyes and the room around him, hear the murmuring people who are eating their food and sipping their coffee. I am glad that it's not quiet.