scribbles

Jane had expected John to see her through the whole evening with her mother.  He had promised so.  And he was, certainly, right there at the table.  Jane, her mother, and John.  But he wasn't really there.

John, like his father (and the endless generation of tinkers before them), had a habit of getting lost in his own thoughts.  It was like he had stood up from the table, walked to the back door of the restaurant and strolled out into the game reserve of his imagination.  His collar open, a newspaper under his arm, and a folding chair at the ready.  So while Jane tried to remain civil with her mother, John was out enjoying himself.  Alone and perfectly at peace.

Normally this didn't frustrate Jane too much.  Quite early on, she had discovered John's excursions, or more accurately, his absences.  There was even one time he had just picked her up for a date, one of their first, and on the way to the restaurant (or was it a bowling alley?) John had stepped out of the car.  There he was, making proper turn signals, observing the speed limit, but he was clearly not there.  Most of the other women John had dated (he would say 'courted') had given up right then, but Jane was different.  She thought it was Intellectual.  Literary.  Attractive.

It wasn't so attractive tonight.