Couples

I am becoming a connoisseur of couples. With little else to do, I watch them with experienced eyes. Do they walk together, arm in arm or hand in hand or walk apart like strangers? Do they sit at a table and talk in animated ways about their day, their hopes and dreams, their fears and worries, or do they sit in silence, and, if they do, is it a silence born of comfort or boredom? When they talk to each other, do their faces light up or do they look with contempt or disgust or simple distain?

I have no idea if what I see is reality. It could be a couple who marches along, hands locked, arms swinging, big ass grins on their faces are fooling me or themselves. They could be happy at that moment and miserable the rest of the time, fighting behind closed doors or making wild love as soon as they get into their hotel room.

With young couples, it is the hardest to tell. They have not been tested by grief or loss or mortgage payments missed or dreams turned to dust.

I watch a couple in the main lobby. They are in their 30’s. She has put on her best dress, he best shoes, her hair is perfect, her makeup applied. She stands with proud elegance as she lopes across the room in his short, t-shirt and scruffy, beach hair. He stops, gestures to his watch and she shakes her head and turns away. He leaps to her side, pats her on the bum, then slips his arm into hers as if he is the prince of all princes, t-shirt, shorts and all, and they march over together towards dinner.

Another couple, older, perhaps in their sixties. They sit together at one of the glass-topped wicker tables in the internet area, she with a no drink in front of her, him with what looks like a pina colada. He wears a short sleeved shirt, patterned with bamboo leaves, and shorts that billow out and show off his skinny white legs. She wears a hat and a sundress even though they are indoors.

He gets up and walks over to a lamp that has been blinking on and off. He fiddles with the cord while she looks the other way, pretending, at least in her mind, that they are not together. He gets on his knees, plays with the connection, the on-off switch, jiggles the cord again and the light flashes on. And stays on. He struts back over. No smile on his face. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. He sits down and, under the table, she snakes her hand to his. A quiet love.

A younger couple walks by. She looks fabulous with her shirt open and her bikini exposed. He looks as good, tanned and tall and fit. A perfect couple. Her hair is blonde and flowing, his army short and dark. Tattoos are wreathed around his arms. Her skin is clear and flawless. The hold hands as they walk but they do not talk to each other. Their eyes are elsewhere. She looks at a young boy playing with an ashtray, his parents nearby reading. He looks over towards the bar and the people seated there, beautiful people, beautiful girls.

They reach the stairs and tangle up. He want yanks her towards the bar, she yanks him towards the stairs. They do not talk. They pull then, like an elastic, they snap and he heads towards the bar and she downstairs, perhaps to eat, perhaps to listen to the live band, perhaps just to be away from him for a moment. She makes on last glance towards the boy playing with the ashtray, or perhaps towards the parents. I am not sure if she is looking at them with longing or loathing.

Still, watching everyone tonight I have to wonder if even the worst couples are better off than being alone.

(Picture is of the very nice couple from Ottawa, and no, I wasn't stalking them, THEY chose to sit not far from me)