I find that recent events have put me in mind of a coffee shop that I used to patronize for breakfast on Sunday mornings. It was your standard sort of place in West Portal, San Francisco, a Penny Lane stretch of restaurants, groceries, pharmacies and such along perhaps five blocks. This was in the late 70's.
The shop was run by a plump little blonde lady in her fifties, always bustling about, serving coffee, taking orders and working the register. She always reminded me of a sweet little mother hen, greeting everyone with an Eastern European accent that I could never quite place.
Her husband did the cooking...Max was the exact opposite of his wife - dour, and not speaking unless spoken to. He wasn't angry or hostile; just removed, with no desire to interact. Turned inward, it seemed.
Odd couple. It was a mystery to me how Max could be that way around his cheery wife, and why she would put up with it.
Then, one day, as Max was setting my breakfast down in front of me, I saw my answer:
Tattooed along the inside of Max's left arm was a line of numbers...
The shop was run by a plump little blonde lady in her fifties, always bustling about, serving coffee, taking orders and working the register. She always reminded me of a sweet little mother hen, greeting everyone with an Eastern European accent that I could never quite place.
Her husband did the cooking...Max was the exact opposite of his wife - dour, and not speaking unless spoken to. He wasn't angry or hostile; just removed, with no desire to interact. Turned inward, it seemed.
Odd couple. It was a mystery to me how Max could be that way around his cheery wife, and why she would put up with it.
Then, one day, as Max was setting my breakfast down in front of me, I saw my answer:
Tattooed along the inside of Max's left arm was a line of numbers...