Well Understood

The ole diner offers twelve course conversations salted with unspoken jargon: one patron withholds the dialect of fed- up-of-my-job while his buddy barely nods, too worn-to-the-bone; a wife texts her friend, i-found- a-lump-in-my-breast while her husband swallows , ah-hell- she’s-having-an-affair. Hear the internalized vernacular of hooked-on-painkillers, the lonely phraseology of my-kids- never-visit, and the private pang of he-didn’t- use-a-condom. Misery keeps its six degrees of vagueness, widens each tiny rift. It would only take mindfulness, a willingness to stretch, but these half-hearted translations make for such unsound bridges — take table three, a party of two: he snaps, get with reality, which means, Honey-just-listen while she raises one finger to her lips, signing, please-just-shut-up- and-kiss-me.