I saw a woman in a restaurant yesterday.
It was a family restaurant;
the tables came in fours and fives, not ones and twos.
She sat alone on a table with three empty seats.

She studied the menu with concentration,
paying no attention to the world that swirled and lashed around her like vicious waves; a coming tide.
Then she did a funny thing: she took out a book, and began to read.
Amidst all the chaos, she somehow found solace.
I envied her, really, for being able to do that—
to not care,
to dare.

I wanted to admire her.
I tried to admire her, I really did.
But I couldn’t.
I pitied her, and cursed myself for it.
And the plates kept clinking,
and the cups kept singing,
and families kept laughing,
and she kept reading.