The Enabler

Irving was an irritating man. He spoke in an overenunciated, strident voice and had the less than charming habit of gesticulating unnecessarily. He always placed his feet on the table when speaking and invariably tilted his head to the left, except to pick the wax out of his ear.

She nonetheless felt obligated to endure Irving's oddness because he had once done something really really nice for her. The only way she could repay him was to be his "friend." By "friend," she meant listening to his diatribes, nodding, and spurting back the same to him.

She watched him pick something from his scalp (a piece of lint? a chunk of dandruff? a nit?), examine it curiously for a good three seconds, and flick it off to the right, all the while delivering his latest spiel on women.

"Women," he gasped, "Women play so many games."

She looked at Irving. "A woman who is nice to you but doesn't want to sleep with you is not playing games."

He was staring at a woman who had just come in. "What?" he asked turning back to her.

"Nevermind," she said and looked out the window. A bird teetered on an uneven branch before fluttering away. She wondered why he even liked being friends with her. She was cynical, visibly repulsed by him, and unsympathetic to his plight. In other words, a really bad friend.

The door of the coffee shop yawned at her.

"Tired?" he asked her.

"No just," she said covering her mouth, "bored. I'm gonna go home."

"Okay I'll call you tonight," Irving said eagerly.

"Fine," she said as she put her purse on her shoulder. "Bye."

"Bye!" he said to her back.

She shivered one last time before she stepped outside the doorway and turned on her cell phone.