The Other Half of Me
Every day at eleven the elderly couple would sit at the rectangular table in the center of the square room that faced the restaurant kitchen. Within two weeks of my eighteenth summer I could put their order in the kitchen without bothering to ask: fried chicken and corn casserole with fruit tea and a side of Miss Lucille’s flapjacks that sizzled on the skillet with their basting of butter. As I refilled the couple’s plastic glasses from the side of my pitcher and lined my forearm with their dirty plates, I learned that they were as predictable in their silence as they were predictable in their paltry tips of change that bulged the pocket of my apron and made me sound like a Gypsy as I scurried among the tables with my biceps trembling beneath heaped meat ‘n’ threes.
I remember watching them consume their meal one corn kernel, trembling sip of tea, and greasy nibble at a time and thinking that they must not have a good marriage because they no longer had anything to talk about.
And yet last night, driving home from a Cajun restaurant where my husband and I had eaten a leisurely meal with my sister-in-law and brother-in-law, the only sound was the whir of the car engine and the classical music turned down low.
When Randy and I were dating, the silence would’ve made me think that there was something we should be talking about. But instead, in that quiet with the moonlight slanting through the sunroof and the interior of the car scented with produce from the grocery, I reached over and took my husband’s large square hand that in ten years of knowing him as friend, fiance, husband, and father had become as familiar to me as my own.
I knew then that in forty-six more years Randy and I may very well be the couple who comes into the restaurant every day at eleven and sits at the rectangular table facing the restaurant kitchen. And we will sit there, and we will eat our meal one corn kernel and one greasy bite of chicken at a time, and nothing will be said not because there is nothing to say, but because he is the other half of me and therefore he already knows what I am thinking.
Have you found that your closest relationships have also become comfortable with time? If so, how?
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Melissa Crytzer Fry
What a sweet, sweet post! (I recall those waitressing days, too, paying my way through college and seeing the same kinds of responses from older couples). A fabulous observation, and I'm SURE you and Randy will do just fine.
Jolina Petersheim
Thanks, Melissa! Sometimes the quiet is refreshing after being with Baby Girl (who is a precious lil' jabberbox). 🙂
Julia Munroe Martin
Yes, our relationship has become quite comfortable but also so intriguing. There are still new things I learn about my husband (after more years than you but not (quite) 46 years). There are of course the silent moments, but we certainly never run out of things to say… and I'm pretty sure you won't either. “Isn't life grand,” as MEH says! (And he really does, it's not just my creation of him 🙂
Jolina Petersheim
MEH IS such a character–just that interview showed how aptly you portray him. 🙂
The quiet moments are comfortable, as are the laughter filled times when life is just GOOD.
Hey, we should make a t-shirt. 😉
Nina B
Oh I love this! Yes, the best part of a comfortable relationship is NOT feeling the need to feel the silence. True for friendships too and maybe even harder in those cases.
Jolina Petershei
Yes, Nina, I love the compatiable silence now, and I think the more comfortable I am in my own skin, the more comfortable I am with the quiet. 🙂
CMSmith
How can we ever fully mine the depths of another? It's always a good idea to stay open minded in our relationships. That being said, there's nothing that compares to sitting in silence beside someone who knows us as well as anyone can, and loves us anyway.
Jolina Petersheim
“That being said, there's nothing that compares to sitting in silence beside someone who knows us as well as anyone can, and loves us anyway.”
So beautiful, Christine…and so aptly put.