You’re trying to enjoy a cup of coffee. This is, apparently, not something you get to do today.
There’s a woman two tables over talking to her friend. She is not using her indoor voice. She has, in fact, decided there is no such thing as an indoor voice, and she’s been kind enough to share that philosophy with the entire room.
It starts reasonably enough. Her landlord is being difficult. Fine. Relatable, even. You file it away without meaning to and return to your drink.
Then it gets more personal.
The landlord situation is connected, it turns out, to a larger financial situation, which is connected to a decision her boyfriend made back in March that she is still, clearly, not over. You know about that decision too. You know what it was. You know what it cost. You did not ask for any of this and yet here it is, living in your head, taking up space that belonged to other things.
You’re still staring at your coffee.
She’s still going.
You now know things about this woman you were never intended to know, and yet it feels like your only option is to sit here and pretend that you don’t.
The moment it leaves her mouth, it becomes everyone else’s problem.
Five minutes ago, the details of her relationship existed entirely inside her own life. Now they’re scattered across a coffee shop, occupying tables they were never invited to.
Once the sound leaves a loudspeaker, you don’t get to decide who hears it.
So, you continue with the most committed act of selective deafness ever performed. You have deliberately arranged your face into an expression that says: I am a person who is simply existing in space, who has heard nothing, retains nothing, and is barely even conscious right now.
And you’re doing it all voluntarily.
Nobody told you to do this. There’s no rule that says you have to sit here and pretend not to listen. And yet something you can’t quite name insists that you do.
Then comes the mole.
Which is apparently located on the back of her upper left shoulder. Her dermatologist is keeping an eye on it. There’s a follow-up appointment next week. The conversation continues, with more intimate details than anyone in the room ever needed or wanted. You now know things about this mole that even the dermatologist probably doesn’t.
This situation has rules you follow without knowing why. You cannot look over. You cannot react. You cannot catch the eye of the couple across from you who are also, clearly, receiving this information whether they wanted it or not. To react would be to admit you were listening, which of course you were not. You were simply very well informed.
You find yourself genuinely hoping the mole is fine. This is not something you expected to feel today.
Eventually the conversation winds down the way they naturally do — gradually, and without any real conclusion. The woman picks up her drink. She glances around the room. At you, past you, through you. No acknowledgement whatsoever. No small apologetic smile. No look that says sorry about all of that.
Nothing.
Because she was just having lunch with a friend. A completely normal Tuesday afternoon. She has absolutely no idea that it was your Tuesday afternoon too.
You finish your coffee.
You think about the mole.
You probably always will.