Smile Morning

My morning paper was thin. Although the mid-week Tribune is never unwieldy, Tuesday's paper felt as though air had been whipped into it by an overly enthusiastic pastry chef, hell bent on serving up a soufleeish mouse, dangerously close to evaporating in my hands for lack of substance. As my coffee stained the bottom of the front page, I thought to myself: "at least now there is something interestingly brown between the lines." Not surprisingly, I was easily distracted from my coffee and paper souflee by a familliar face.

I knew it was her when I saw her eyes. She was smiling, which she rarely did when we worked togeher. The wrinkles at the outer corners of her eyes only appeared when she smiled. They were the sort of downward traces of inner turmoil wrought of tension and conflict, sorrow and headaches. It was that brief sense that joy had somehow conquered the worst in her, if only for a moment, that I thought she was beautiful and forgot about my paper. She was wearing her glasses and a brown Greek Fisherman's cap, which complimented her probably-Italian dark white face. Not surprisingly, she didn't recognize me and walked on by.

Perhaps it was her freinds, with their boyishly feminine, open, and welcoming faces, calling her in unison to the front counter. Magali and "her blonde twin" (my nemesis) had managed not only to ignite that burst of a smile on my friend's face, but also to hasten her steps straight past my table. At first I was taken aback that she did not acknowledge me, but then I thought "how gladly to be pavlov's mouse for fromage de Magali!" Perhaps it was the fact that I am fifty pounds heavier, with a full beard, less hair, and missing my Clark Kent Birth Control Glasses. Whatever the reason, I was, for the moment, content to watch these three sisters (to me they were "sisters" because of my delicate sensibilities), all smiles and noise and unabashed happiness. The three of them left in a hurry. It was now nearly ten o'clock in the morning and I knew I was going to have a good day.