i don't care that you broke your elbow
on your vote and what it costs
You are the one who texted me. Out of the blue, after several years of silence. You’ve known I want nothing to do with you for a long time now. That’s how I knew it must be urgent, if reaching out to me felt like the best option. I could lie to myself and say that I don’t know why I’m here, at this diner, waiting for you to walk in the door. But I do know. I will always know. I love you, despite who you’ve become.
My latte is cold. You’re late. I stare at the bubbled foam deflating in my mug. The latte art is warped, a broken heart of whipped milk and dusted with cocoa. I won’t drink it until you’re here.
The door opens and the little welcome bell chimes.
I look up and see you wiping your rain boots on the front mat, scanning the diner for my face. Our eyes meet as you take off your coat. A half smile. I wave you over. Now you’re sitting in front of me. It’s surreal. You look so different, and yet totally the same. The lines on your face are deeper, the crinkles around your eyes when you smile are heavier. Maybe that’s evidence of life happening, in all the time we’ve not spoken. I don’t know.
“Hi,” you are breathless, sliding into the booth across from me.
“Hey,” I take my first sip of coffee. It sucks. “I didn’t order for you, I wasn’t sure what you’d want.”
You’ve already flagged a waitress down and asked loudly for a black coffee. No sugar. You make sure she knows no sugar, in the passive aggressive tone you use when talking to someone who works on tips. I tell myself you don’t know you do it. I know I’m wrong.
“I was surprised to hear from you,” I begin, unsure. “What’s going on?”
“Well, I figured we hadn’t talked in such a long time,” you say. Your hands clasp on the table, you look genuinely happy to see me. You’re picking at your thumb nail, so I know you’re anxious. Something is wrong. “It’s good to see you, M.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “It’s good to see you too. You know how I feel though. That’s it. I’m not here to be friends. What’s going on?” Your smile falters. I can see the worry lines growing between your eyebrows. The pause is uncomfortable. You seem to be waiting for me to assume the niceties, treat this like a normal conversation, as if nothing has happened.
I wait.
You can’t help yourself. “I still don’t understand you. I don’t get how you can throw me aside like that, all because of politics—”
“Don’t fucking start with me.” My knuckles are clenched around my mug handle. “Politics matters. It affects people. Real people.”
Your lips purse. I feel an ache in my chest, knowing that I can read you so well, despite everything falling apart. You are not the person I knew anymore, I remind myself.
“Well, just because we disagree, doesn’t mean we can’t still be family,” your coffee arrives at that moment, so your voice drops. I almost chuckle. Of course, we couldn’t let the waitress know we’re not okay, could we?
“I’m only going to say this once,” I am tired. You know where I stand, you know why I stand here. “This is not a reunion, this is not me agreeing to let it lie. Tell me what’s going on, because unless you’re in some kind of horrifying crisis that impacts our family, I want none of it.” I drain my latte mug and reach into my purse for a tenner.
“Okay,” you say. “Okay, yeah.”
I put my cash on the table and stare at you.
“It’s…it’s about Bob.” Your voice shakes a little, and you pick at your thumbnail more aggressively. “He’s…”
I watch your eyes search mine. Your cheeks flush. You are afraid.
“Bob’s been detained,” your eyes are tearing now. You take a shaky sip of your coffee. “It happened so fast, they came to his work…”
“Agents?” I ask, my stomach twisting. You nod. Your tears are falling now, dripping down your tired face.
“It happened last week. They still have him. I don’t know what to do, M. It’s been five days,” you weep, you pick at your thumb, you wait for me to tell you what to do. I know that’s what you want. For me to fix it.
“I’m really sorry,” I say quietly. “Have you spoken to a lawyer?”
You shake your head no.
We sit together in silence for a few minutes while you cry.
The sound of the diners fills the space. Conversational murmuring in the air, a loud laugh, a gasp, the clinking of utensils. It’s not particularly crowded. No one seems to notice our own bubble of discomfort. I wonder how many of the people around us have been stopped, questioned, harassed? How many have known someone to be detained, to disappear? Some of them are terrified, wondering when it will be their turn. Or their child’s. Or their husband’s. Some of them are just like you, who sold out their communities and families for the promise of milk and honey. They prop their justifications against the false idol they put into office. Until, that is, what they were promised happens to them.
It feels like a brief eternity of quiet sniffling and intermittent coffee-sipping. You break the silence. “I don’t know what to do,” you sound afraid.
“Yeah,” I don’t know what to say.
“I wasn’t expecting this.”
It takes an immense level of restraint for me to not leave right then.
“Come on,” I sigh, exasperation poisoning my tone. “Yes you were.”
“No, I wasn’t,” you snap. “I don’t need this from you.”
“You’re right. You need a lawyer.”
Your thumb nail is bleeding. You don’t stop picking.
“They weren’t supposed to do this,” the tears well in your eyes again.
I am becoming increasingly agitated. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“They weren’t!” You raise your voice. “Not to hardworking, honest people. It was supposed to be the dangerous ones, the murderers, the rapists—”
“Your rapist was a citizen. You know that better than anyone.”
The color drains from your cheeks. “That is irrelevant,” your tone is icy. “Bob is not a bad man. He shouldn’t be deported.”
“I know,” I am tired. I know you can tell. “I know he’s not.”
“So…what do we do?” you ask, searching my face. “I thought, maybe with your connections—”
“Jesus Christ,” I laugh. “I don’t have any fucking connections. I worked for USAID, not fucking Homeland Security. They let me go last week anyway.”
You stare at me. You seem surprised.
“Yeah. Everything they said they would do, they are doing. You need a fucking lawyer. I can text you some resources that should be able to help. But that’s all I’ve got for you.”
The silence that follows this is uncomfortable. I can practically hear the gears turning in your skull. You’ve abandoned your bleeding fingernail now.
“Look, I didn’t—”
“Yes,” I am firm. I will not allow you to get away with ignorance. My stomach is twisting and my heart is starting to race. I am angry. “Yes, you did know. I showed you. I gave you books, articles, information. I offered to help you. I told you what would happen if they got power—”
“M, keep your voice down—” you beg, glancing around. A few diners have turned to look over at us. I don’t care.
“I sent you their demented project. I tried everything with you—”
“Please, M. I don’t know who else to turn to.”
I watch you for a moment. You look so familiar and so strange.
“I’ll text you resources that may be able to help you,” I pull on my coat and stand up. “Even if I wanted to swoop in and be the savior, I can’t. I don’t have the money or power.” I truly have no answers.
You clutch your mug. You are staring at the table again.
“I’m really sorry,” My chest aches. It hurts that you are hurting. I wish it was that way for you when I’m suffering. “I’m sorry. What you’re up against is horrible. It may…it may get worse. I don’t know.”
You look up at me. I wonder if it’s starting to sink in, even gradually, what is happening. A lifetime of relationship and love between us, fades away to reveal you, now. Someone I do not know.
“Thanks for meeting me,” you smile weakly.
“Sure thing.”
“I’ll wait for your text then.”
I nod. I shoulder my purse. I want to hug you and then I don’t.
“Take care,” I say. The blood rushing in my ears, the flush in my skin, the beating of my heart. It is almost too much. “I’ll be thinking of you and Bob.”
You don’t respond. You go back to your thoughts and your coffee.
I linger for a second, then walk briskly out of the diner. I shield myself from the rain with my bag. The anger has transformed to melancholy. I feel sick to my stomach.
The drive home is silent.
It isn’t until I park in my driveway that I come undone,
Crying along with the grayscale sky.
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