My yoke is easy

I’m observing an elderly couple read a book on their Kindle. They drove down to the public library in Halifax to spend some time reading on the top floor overlooking Spring Garden Road on a rainy day in November. She’s wearing a grey coat. He has on a thick flannel plaid shirt. He speaks slowly and clearly. A conversational tone, but it’s quiet enough in here that the room can hear him.

“I only have a bit left, but we can end it here if you’d like to stop.”

She mumbles something to him. We’re close to them, but she’s more conscious of the room so she doesn’t elevate her voice.

“Well, we don’t have to go outside if you don’t want. It’s raining a bit again. There was a while where it wasn’t raining before.” he says.

“It’s supposed to rain for the rest of the day.” she adds.

“We can just go down to the car and drive home.” he says.

She asks him about lunch. And supper.

“We have a few things at home.” he says.

There is a long pause.

“Let’s get a couple of chicken breasts.” she concludes.

“We can stop at Sobeys on the way home.” He ponders a moment. “We can get some bananas. There’s only one left.”

With their plans in place and agreed on, they stand and gather their things and leave the library.

It’s a vignette in the lives of strangers. Unremarkable. They may have already forgotten about it, not suspecting that someone overheard and wrote it down.

It’s a conversation that rests on a mountain of conversations. Days spent together. Quarrels. Disagreements. Celebrations. Tragedies. A life together with one person. Yoked.

I thought I had finished the day’s observations, but moments later a young lady comes and sits in their spot. She’s not particularly alluring and she’s not drawing attention to herself. She’s wearing an oversized grey sweater with curly brown hair and pulls out a book to read. Everything fitting for rainy November weekend downtime.

A man walks in a few minutes later, crosses the room and walks up to the window close to her chair, but a safe distance away. He’s talking a bit to himself while entering the room; it’s loud enough to be heard, but the room is quiet. He doesn’t look like he has any mental health issues, unlike some of the street people on the main floor of the library.

After a beat, he turns to her and announces: “I like your phone.” She looks up and replies: “Thanks. I got it on eBay.”

“That’s good,” he replies. “I like the idea of reusing things.”

There’s a lull. “So how are your thoughts? Are you happy?” he asks.

She’s quizzical, and reasonably defensive, but not antagonistic. “Well, I’m a little wet from the rain still.” There’s another lull. “Well, okay. Sorry to bother you.” He walks away alone.

My instincts tell me that was an assignment. An exercise. Talk to this number of women in a day for so many days. Break down the fear in you. Develop yourself into a man who can talk to women. Perhaps this man has given money to one of those online “alpha males” for a course or something. It feels ridiculous and abnormal to everyone within earshot. And he feels it too. But there’s a desperation hidden in it somewhere. A sadness. He’s never been able to find a solution to his loneliness, so he’s outsourced the planning because he’s out of ideas and time is marching on.

He crosses the room and mutters to himself: “Okay. Job done.” And he leaves.

Unyoked.