So ... it's Friday. And this is what I'm doing. And this week's exercise is Unreliable Third:
It's been a while since I've written in third-person. The novel I've been working on is all first-person. And of course this blog is first-person most of the time, except when I like to refer to myself in the third. Third-person is fun, though, and I miss it. I'm sorry if, like the passage says, I "irritate" you. All I can say is, "I don't mean to bug you." Also, I went over the 500-word instruction, with about twice that many. But I guess I see the word-count thing as a floor, not as a ceiling.

Anyway, here you go ...



Unreliable Third

"I didn't order chamomile," said Jan. "I ordered English Breakfast. I come here several times a week and my order is always the same, you know? English Breakfast."

From behind her dark sunglasses, Jan looked at her hands as she said this. She turned her wedding ring around on her finger. The waiter retreated from the table and went inside to return her chamomile. She hadn't meant to snap. He was new, after all. She'd only seen him once before. She would apologize when he came back. Or not ... why should she care, anyway? Service was not what it used to be. Anywhere. She had been to New York recently and had been bitterly disappointed at just how average the restaurants had been there. The food and the service. Both were utterly ... average.

In Palo Alto, the day was white with sun. Warm and pleasant on the patio of The Blue Heron, where she often took a mid-afternoon tea and read a book. She took a paperback from her bag and set it on the table next to her silverware. Then she sat back in her chair and waited for her tea and felt the warmth of the sun against her face and chest and thought it was nice and good.

Next to Jan, a young couple—early 30s perhaps—touched hands across their table. They spoke to each other in soft, whispered voices, backs hunched, heads leaning low and close to one-another. They had on nice clothes, as if they had come from church. But the man's tie was undone. And the woman's blouse was wrinkled. They each wore bands on their fingers. And they softly touched finger to finger, palm to back of hand, like people in love do. Married ... probably recently, thought Jan. Enjoying a Sunday afternoon brunch together. They reminded Jan of a straighter, less hippy version of she and Roger. Back in the Haight, talking forever in cafes, high and in love. Roger had always enjoyed his photography, and so she had plenty of pictures from then, and she kept them in worn cardboard boxes in her bedroom closet. They had never had kids and so the pictures were all she had left of him now. Even so, she rarely looked at them. His memory was alive enough in her mind.

The waiter came back with a check for the young couple and an English Breakfast for Jan. He set the tea and a saucer in front of her, along with a white porcelain creamer and sugar bowl.

"Would you care for anything else, Miss?"

"No, thank you," said Jan, looking at the tea set in front of her. The waiter turned to leave, but Jan stopped him.

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

She turned her head toward him but kept her gaze down, about level with his chest. "I ... um ... oh nothing. Thank you."

"Of course," said the waiter and turned away again.

Next to her, the couple left some bills on the table and got up to leave. The man walked over to the woman and took her hand as they left the patio and went inside.

Jan put some sugar in her tea and stirred it and listened to the clanking sound the spoon made against the cup. She thought about how, if Roger was here now, he'd be sitting across from her with a paper. His bald head shining in the sun. Those last few years it had been strange to watch that baldness happen where once, many years ago, there had been long, pony-tailed hair.

She glanced at her book, started to pick it up. Then she noticed a pair of women's sunglasses on the table where the young couple had just been. She looked around for the waiter, but he was inside somewhere. Normally, she would have left the sunglasses and carried on with her reading, but the couple had seemed so adorable and those looked like really nice sunglasses and it would be a real shame for the girl to lose them. Maybe Jan could still catch them if she hurried.

Jan grabbed the sunglasses and headed quickly inside. She surveyed the restaurant from over the rims of her own dark sunglasses, but the couple was nowhere to be seen. Hopefully they were still in the parking lot. Jan walked as fast as she could without making a spectacle of herself, through the restaurant, between tables where people were dining and talking, and out the front door back into the sunlight. She saw the man next to a car, his back to her. She recognized him by his clothes.

"Sir?" she called.

The man turned toward Jan as she hurried over to where he stood.

"Sir, I think your wife left these at the table." Jan glanced inside the car and saw nobody in the passenger side. She looked around the parking lot. She did not see the woman, but did see a blue BMW pulling onto the street. She turned back to the man and for the first time saw his face. His eyes were red and he seemed sad. Like he'd been crying. Jan turned her gaze to her hands and the sunglasses that she held.

"My wife?"

"Yes. I was sitting next to you. On the patio." Jan said to her hands. This was definitely the same man. Jan could tell by his shoes. The ring on his finger.

"Oh ... she's not ..." the man stopped.

"I'm sorry?" said Jan, looking up.

"Oh, nothing," said the man and smiled. "Thank you." He held out his hand to accept the sunglasses.

"They seemed like nice sunglasses," said Jan, handing them to the man. "And I hope this isn't inappropriate, but I couldn't help but notice you two in there and you seemed so ... well, in love ... and you reminded me of my husband and me. A long time ago."

"Yes, thank you. That's ... very kind of you." He took the sunglasses and put them in his shirt pocket. Then he opened his car door and got in without saying anything.

Jan stood there for a moment, while the man started his car. Then she turned and went back into the restaurant, walked through the interior dining room and out the rear door onto the patio.

Her book and her tea were on the table. She sat down but made no effort to drink her tea, or read her book. She just sat back and closed her eyes and felt the warmth of the sun on her face and chest and remembered.

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