Her young face wore a perpetual look of disappointment and longing.

Six of her fingers wore rings.

Her hair wore the most current bleach and was slapped back in a no-care, disdainful look.

Her skin was as smooth as money could buy.

Her eyelashes were the kind you needed a tweezers and glue to maintain.

Her glasses were this new style, oversized, and down low on her nose; I sometimes wonder if they are supposed the make the wearer look sort of like the proverbial damsel in distress.

If I wasn’t mistaken, at her 18 young years, she had already been under the knife to enhance her beauty.

She wore an affected weariness that was supposed to presage the extreme responsibility of being chic.

She and her mom communicated in short mumbles between screen blips on their phones.  Her mom asked her what she was going to order.

“I think I’ll go with the Philly Steak sandwich.  I feel like I need to expand my horizons more than just hamburgers.”

Then she rested her head on the table in sheer exhaustion, or disinterest in her mundane surroundings, until her next message beeped on her phone.

When her sandwich arrived, she picked at it, pulled most of the onions off and put them on her mom’s tray, and then asked her mom to get the wait staff to bring her a fork. 

She didn’t use the fork; rather took the bun off and fingered the meat into little blobs and boredly ate it. (I pondered long on how she would get the smell and grease from that meat out from under the fingernail extensions she wore.)

Her mom finished her own sandwich, and, using the unused fork, ate the rest of the meat that her daughter’s five bites had left untouched.  

They got up and moved away, she in her black sweats and tank top, her mom in her pajama sweats and tee shirt.

It was getting on to 4 in the afternoon and we needed to get to the airport; I saw them drift off to my right and then, as they mingled with the mighty crowd of humanity there that day, they sank out of sight.

My heart pained for them.  

*****

He was an average looking Dad.

His tee shirt draped over large shoulders and a barrel chest; Muscular legs bulged from his short pants. 

His hair was neatly combed; his beard neatly trimmed.

Each of his boys had matching close up haircuts with a neat part in the side.

His wife, her sister, and her mom all wore matching fall colors. 

They made an attractive family.

I heard his dad-in-law tell him of the original pair of Levi jeans recently discovered that had sold for nearly $87,000 to a couple of young blokes.  I saw him listen attentively and make a kind remark in reply.

I watched as he held his youngest child at the breakfast table.  The little boy flipped the straw out of his cup and water splashed all over his face.  I tensed.  Was he going to be angry with his son?  But no.  He smiled down at his little one, water still dripping from his face.

He took time for all his boys, because, well, that’s what good dads do, I guess.

I happened by their table about the time they were getting ready to leave.

I eased up beside him and told him, “You make a good Dad.”

“Oh, well, I really don’t know.  Some days you wonder,” he said.

His wife looked at him with liquid eyes and then looked at me and nodded in agreement to my remark.

“Yeah,” I said, as I gave his shoulder a thump, “You make a good Dad.  I could see it from a long way away.”

For some reason, later that day, I felt like I should pray for him.

So, I did.