They sat at their favourite table in the happening, beautiful restaurant at Yonge and Summerhill. They laughed, petted each other adoringly and toasted their mutual fabulousness.
Half way through their main course, a woman burst through the front door of the restaurant, pushed angrily passed the snooty maitre d’ and ran screaming toward the couple.
‘You crazy son of a bitch. This is the last time, I tell you. You have done this too many times, do you think I am blind, do you think I am crazy. How could you, you horrible, mean spirited, selfish pig? I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.’ She slammed her fist on the table, the wine spilled flooding the Sole Almandine as she ran screaming out the door.
At this point, as much as we are shy, unassuming Canadians, there was not a sound in the restaurant as all eyes turned to the couple left behind. They did not flee in embarrassment, did not blush or even blink. In the cruel way that life can find the humiliated and hurt further humiliate and hurt themselves and the nasty and unkind appear unscathed – they looked at each other and said “Well, that could have been a lot worse”.
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Temptation is grand and the flesh is weak.
The instinct to become impassioned can be overwhelming; it has the ability to convince us that justice can rise from dustiest quicksand circumstances.
I arrived, with great delay, at the thought that sometimes that loud instinct is in fact just Pride masquerading as humiliation. Pride does a masterful job of this, going all out trying to distract us from what we really need to be doing. Yes, this happens to even in the nicest, most well-meaning folks.
When awareness manages to surface, we can see that when people truly know better, they do better.
Until then, a dog must scratch his fleas.
Idas- I love your writing. Thank you for sharing your clear and poetic thoughts-n