FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS

FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS: CHAPTER FOURTEEN (Yvette)

No credit is deserved for recognizing beauty of the traffic stopping variety. I would not be surprised if many of you consider me to be a shallow individual, one whose life revolves around hedonism and eye candy. But truth be told, I take great pride in my powers of observation regarding subtle attractions. In creating woman, God presented man with a cornucopia of delights. If one looks past the obvious, beyond the superficial, he will come across far more precious and lasting attributes in the fairer gender.

Such was the case with Yvette. The rigors of her trade caused prettiness to be of minimal concern. Perhaps if she worked at an upscale restaurant she would have focused more on her appearance to get bigger tips. More valuable when working at a neighborhood diner was a comfortable pair of shoes. She was easy to look past, but if you chose instead to look close, your eyes would spot a glimmer of diamond beneath the coal.

Life had not been particularly kind to Yvette, as I was to discover. And I would end up adding to her list of woes. This was not my original intention, of course. I simply wished to reward her for the smile she greeted me with each day.

Yvette is a waitress at the diner around the corner from my apartment. She served me breakfast regularly, and for this reason an attachment was formed. Perhaps the mother-child bond is likewise explained.

She wasn't overly chatty or nosy - so much for comparisons to Mom. "How are things with you?" was as deep a question as she would pose. But the familiarity bred by frequent visitation caused me to volunteer a good deal more information than was customary. The fact that I wasn't putting moves on her no doubt played a part. We were just making conversation for the sake of hearing our own voices, and as time went by, ended up finding out quite a bit about each other.

There was one question I didn't ask, despite my steadily growing curiosity. Curiosity isn't the best choice of words actually, for I was fairly certain of what the answer was. Only a husband's fists could make the bruises that sporadically showed upon her. But it was none of my business, and I had no intention of making it so.

Intentions are only as strong as a person's will, however. If you remember anything I've told you, remember this.

On a day Yvette was unable to force a smile past her fattened lip or a sparkle past her blackened eye, I found myself no longer able to maintain silence.

"When is your break?" I asked.

"Why?"

"Because I thought you might want to talk about it."

"I don't," she said meekly.

"How about some revenge then?"

She looked at me curiously. "What kind of revenge?"

"The best kind," I said as I took her hands in mind. "The kind that helps you forget about the rest of the world for awhile."

Yvette pulled her hands from my grasp and looked at her wedding band, at all that it represented. She had promised for better or for worse, but worse was taking more out of her than she was willing to give.

"And what do you get out of it?" she asked.

"Maybe I get to see you smile."

"That might be asking too much."

"I'm willing to give it a try."

"I think you'd be better off ordering breakfast and leave the smile making to circus clowns."

"Okay. Two scrambled eggs, ham, homefries, a toasted bagel and coffee." Yvette didn't write down my order. She had already known what it would be.

"It isn't as bad as it seems, Michael."

"There are a lot of ways to touch a woman, Yvette. None of them should leave marks like that."

"His job is very hard on him."

"What does that have to do with you or that bruise?"

A tear slid from the corner of Yvette's good eye. "I'll tell you at three-thirty. That's when I go on break."