Umbrella

Just having woken up on Saturday morning, still with crusty eyes, we decide to go out for breakfast all in a matter of minutes. It is unusual for the both of us to be out of bed and out the door in such a short amount of time. Pulling on sweats and sweaters, I’m not even brushing my hair; we shrug on waterproof jackets. He grabs my ring, “Just making sure we’re married today.”

“You read my mind.” I said. “Keys?”
“Got ‘em.”
“Wallet? Phone?” I ask again.
“I’ve got everything, Babe.”

Hand-in-hand we head out on this morning adventure, making our way to the bakery. It’s foggy and wet, the clouds opening up now and then to dump their cleanliness upon the grey city of Chicago. Maybe that’s what rain really is, I think to myself, cleanliness. It wipes away the dust and grime, it gives new life. We have a new life, a new life together, only 6 months of marriage behind us.

We arrive at the little bakery; somewhat soggy, we shrug off our watery jackets. After ordering, we lounge in our little booth; we wait for the food to arrive both getting lost in the live movie that we’re watching through a water-stained, steamy window. The Tribune man is out there. He’s smoking and I wonder to myself, How does his cigarette stay lit with the dribble around him? How does he feel about that job? I wish I could read his mind. He walks up and down the damp street, trying desperately to sell papers to moving cars.

We observe other people coming in and out of the bakery. People are different in the city on Sunday mornings, more causal it seems, or maybe just more relaxed. The makeup isn’t as strong the smiles are bigger the hugs are longer or maybe just more caring. Most are dressed like we are, very casual. Lots of conversations are light-hearted; others feeling the same way we do: comfortable and relaxed. The atmosphere is one of a big family meal, it’s as if we all live at the bakery and have come to eat breakfast with everyone who is there.

We break out of the daze. We realize that this is not one big family and we are here with each other. For some reason it’s easier to watch other people chat than actually hold our own conversation, so we mostly sit in silence. We are not mad, angry or even frustrated at one another; it just is work to work at conversation. It seems we think marriage gives us the supernatural ability to read minds. So we sit—reading each other’s minds.

Food arrives and we dig in. Crunching into my bacon and cheese panini, I ask “Is yours good?”
“Really good,” he muffles through bites.
“So are we gonna get it?” I ask the mind reader.
“Get what?” he asks, distracted with his food.

“The umbrella,” I reply. My eyes have been roaming out the window and my mind has been wandering. I’ve been thinking about drips, drops, damp, drizzle and being drenched. If we get the umbrella now, we’ll have it for years to come; if we get the umbrella now, I won’t have to think about it any more; if we get the umbrella now, I won’t have to keep asking him. Why I needed the umbrella so much—I’m not sure—but today, I declare that the umbrella is a much-needed addition to our repertoire of possessions.

We finish the conversation without really finishing the conversation. We do, however, finish our meal, pay for our food, and make our way out into the saturated city. Holding hands, we obviously have different plans because we abruptly yank in different directions.
“Where are you going?” I ask, standing in the middle of the street.

“I thought we were getting groceries,” he replies.
“I thought we were getting the umbrella,” I say as I run to catch up to him.
We stand on the corner, both undecided about what to do. All the happy couples with their steaming cups of coffee and big umbrellas mock us as they stream by, established in where they’re going. I thought we were finally just going to get it. I thought he knew I wanted it—almost needed it—why can’t he just know what I’m thinking?

Anger starts to flare rearing its ginormously ugly head. “Fine!” I say. “We’ll never get it!” I know we will never get it; it will be a life-time of me asking him for it and him not realizing my need. I start to head toward the grocery store. I turn and he’s walking the opposite way, heading to the store that holds the essence of our argument.

I stand in the drizzle, expecting him to turn around. He doesn’t. Do I stand here looking stupid, or follow him? I trudge towards the dreaded store. I cannot find him anywhere. I find the umbrella stand and look up; there he is: buying it. Turning and smiling, he expects me to be happy. I am not. I’m fuming about being left in the street. I’m mad because I don’t want to want this silly thing so badly; mostly I’m mad at us for acting like children. I don’t even want it that badly; I just want him to know I want it.

“I didn’t mean for you to just go out and get it,” I say.
“I thought that’s what you wanted… the umbrella,” he says, confused.
“I did want it…but not like this.”

We look into each other’s eyes for the first time since the bakery, trying to read one another but we can’t. Why is it so hard to read minds? I wish I had a giant billboard on my forehead so he would know what I am thinking.

With umbrella in his hand, we decide to take the train home rather than walk. The conversation picks up while we’re on the train; we chat about mindless things. We don’t sit down but stand by the train doors, holding on to the railing. I decide to hang the umbrella on the hand rail, rather than hold it. The train sways back and forth, lulling us into a quiet, peaceful state. The umbrella moves slightly, in rhythm with the train’s motions.

The train slows, noisily braking as it comes to a halt. The doors swoosh open, and we step off the train. Bounding down the stairs with all the other Sunday train-goers, I suddenly realize neither one of us grabbed the umbrella. Turning abruptly I try to make my way up, which is impossible, as the stream of people is going down. I jostle my way to the platform and the train is still there. I dash for the doors as I hear, “Attention passengers, do not attempt to board the train; doors are closing!” The doors slam shut and I watch as the train moves along to its next destination, unfaltering in its movements, unaware that it has our treasure within, unaccustomed to waiting for passengers who leave things aboard.

He is two steps behind me, worry in his eyes, “What’s wrong, Babe?”
“Adam…” I can’t look at him. “I lost it.” I look up. Expecting to see blame and disapproval, I am stunned to see only kindness and sympathy. He might have just finally done it—read my mind—known what I needed in an instant.

“We can just as easily get a new one, Babe,” he assured me. “It’s not your fault at all, Honey. These things happen.” My eyes hold doubt, but he means it. This matters more: his selflessness and sincerity. This was what I needed from him all along, to know that what I felt mattered; that my silly quirks and needs meant a lot to him. The umbrella is gone, but our understanding of one another is greater; maybe one step closer to mind-reading.