Mirth

Mirth

A Story by SJ
"

Literally- trying to write the emotion known as humor

"

Her shoulder caught his eye first.

 A slight movement up, then down. Then a huge, deep breathe.

 It caused him to look at her face. Half of it was covered by her left hand; one slender finger, her index, resting on her right cheekbone, her thumb resting on her other cheek creating a Nike swoop that covered her mouth and what transpired beneath.

He looked down at his phone until movement caught his eye again: both shoulders moving ever so slightly; jiggling. He looked to that masked face again. Nothing. Unremarkable. A million like it. That hand: containing the answer behind it. Her head was bent to a book; her leg was crossed; right over left. She was dressed like an American. Hair: long and shielding her profile from observation. 

That hand again with trimmed nails had a wedding ring, a slight tan, and it looked capable. It seemed to squeeze her face in synchrony with her shoulder movement and then finally it moved. It moved to the underlash of her left eye and swiped at some moisture pooled at the outer apex.

She was crying. She transferred her book and provided symmetry to her ablutions.

He looked to his phone again and left her to her sorrow. Activity buzzed and cajoled, his long legs, which crossed in outstretched fashion at the ankles, moved obligatorily at regular intervals as passengers waxed and waned to the timetable of the airport.  Another hour-

He noticed in his periphery movements similar to before and caught her using the back of her hand to wipe tears away before resting finally in her lap. Her mouth was closed and well contained, a line of rosy flesh that harbored no outward emotion and brooked no argument.

Again, suddenly, that hand flies up to cover her mouth. Again, her shoulders shake, nay- her whole body shakes, again he sees water pooling in her eyes, and then a small, highly contained; desperately-trying-to-not-make-a-sound- sound reaches him and he finally looks right at her. She looks up and meets his gaze, eyes crinkled attractively, glistening, as she shakes her head ever so slightly to and fro.

What it the hell is she reading?

She looks at him helplessly and shrugs her shoulders at him and squeezes her eyes shut forcing out another tear and finally removes that hand from her face.

 

She is smiling.

 

She’s showing teeth: top and bottom. Her lips free of their previous containment: free and front lining her mirth. She laughs silently now her upper body moving like a symphony to expel every ounce of joy she feels into the space between them as if,…as if the secret, whatever it was, is out and the weight is lifted and she is set free.

He smiles as well. Contagious.

“Sorry. Too damned funny. Can’t stop laughing”

“What are you reading?!”

Sh*t My Kids Ruined

He smiles at that. She shows him the page- a small kid- looking dumbfounded stares out at him from the glossy page; white crap all over him; all over the foreground and background. She’s leaning forward to show him and laughing at it and the sound is dumbfounding: in a good way, like it contains the answer to who she is- as God made her, beautiful and gracious and joy-filled.

She moves back into her space to turn the page and show him another.

“I can’t even look at this one-” and yet she peeks and utterly collapses, handing him the book and laughing first with sound and then so hard she is silent, holding herself as if to contain some of the jiggling. He can’t help but laugh too- first at the book then at her.

He turns the page to peruse further and sends her into ramshackle hilarity as she first looks at him, then looks to the book before finally connecting what she is seeing with her funny bone. She snorts and desperately tries to draw in a breath to dignify the sounds coming forth unchecked and fails miserably as she doubles over, swaying and jiggling soundlessly, crying joyously.

“Augh!,” she finally gets out, “ I don’t know why, but it just tickles my funny bone. It probably won’t be funny any other day of the week- just today.”

“You’re a parent?”

She nods and takes her book back and closes it. Wipes her eyes dry again and rights her clothing and her bag and her hair. She looks up at him and smiles

“It must hit too close to home or something!”

“You must laugh a lot-“ he reverberates, utterly surprised by his question

The woman looks at him speculatively; quieted.

“…..Well, no, not really. I guess I just take the opportunity, when it arises, to partake:…..Lord knows they don’t come often enough…” she finishes on a whisper.

But he hears her.

They converse the mundane, yet it’s happy now, any drudgery of the day gone, phone unimportant, the guy two seats down looking at the book and laughing and she laughing when he laughs and he laughing when she laughs.

The flight is called and one and all line up like cattle and he hears her say

“It was on the clearance rack- I almost didn’t buy it. Don’t know what caught my eye-”

He sat in his space, ready for the solitude. Ready to hammer out the worries in his life, fix his problems, and strategize his priorities.  He is heavy with all and stubborn to accomplish. And he can’t. Physically can’t

He smiles; then again. Her joy feels like an unexpected hour-long massage: one that worked every muscle and hit the kinks and knots with the right amount of vengeance. He remembers the last time he laughed like that and smiles some more.

They meet at the baggage claim and he helps her with her bag, she smiles and thanks him. They walk outside together and wish the other good day. They drive the same path for half a mile, he two cars behind in the hotel taxi, she driving a small black car.

She signals her intent and he watches her amble her way from the far left, through three lanes of traffic, to exit up the off ramp onward and away from his view.

 

After check in and phone calls, he readies himself for the next day. He mull’s over the dinner menu and then discards; instead, settling on a stiff and generous finger of Scotland’s finest.

Night falls and he comforts himself in the hotel chair, tie off, shoes off, cuffs folded up. He sips and peruses, contemplates and surmises, swirls the contents of his glass in introspection before finally going to bed. And thinks of her one last time forever, smiling and chuckling lightly.

© 2013 SJ


Author's Note

SJ
The ending seems too pollyanish; would like comments on that.

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Added on April 2, 2013
Last Updated on April 2, 2013

Author

SJ
SJ

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