Relationships are like dirty laundry. They shouldn’t be aired in public. And yet that’s where most of the drama seems to be. I reckon most people try to break up in public to stop the other person from making a scene. Yet that’s exactly what they will do. I got the tram on Thursday night and a young couple sat down beside me. He was dapper in a perfectly tailored dress suit and shoes that were so shiny you could direct the three wise men by them.
He walked three paces in front of his partner who was clothed in the sort of cocktail dress that would fit into a cocktail glass. They looked like they’d just come from the Oscars or some equivalent awards ceremony. By the expressions on their faces it was clear that they hadn’t won. They sat down and stared directly ahead as if transfixed by a magic lantern. After several uncomfortable minutes (particularly for me) he said something. She immediately turned away from him and stared out the window into the inky darkness. It seemed like one of those melodramatic movie moments, the sort where he suddenly utters the phrase she’s been longing to hear and she turns tearfully and hugs him in a passionate embrace. But this was the weak, washy way of true tragedy and she held her gaze into the comforting night.
Eventually their stop came along and the uncomfortable silence was broken. But only as far as the platform. She immediately took off in a direction he wasn’t expecting and he was left open mouthed and full of uncertainty. You could tell he wanted to chase after her but was extremely conscious of the tram load of passengers that he now had for an audience. She was also conscious of that audience but was determined to play up to them. She walked past the tram window, her head held high in the glow of the lights and her face a mixture of hurt and self satisfaction. It was clear that whatever had gone on, she was the winner. And if he thought he was having the last word in the argument, he was probably only having the first one in the row they would have the next day.
I thought of them on Saturday morning as I tucked into a rugby consolation breakfast. I’d dragged myself out of bed early to watch Ireland play France and after the middle class tossers had let the country down again I thought I deserved one of the specials that Tracy comes up with in her café round the corner. I was tucking into my new favourite of scrambled eggs on toast with avocado and mushroom, when Trent and Sharon wedged themselves in beside me. Couples in cafes on Saturday mornings fall into two categories. They are either long term partners or people who’ve just slept with each other for the first time. Trent and Sharon certainly fitted into the latter category. The long termers generally pick up the weekend paper on the way in, split it so that he gets the sport and she gets the fashion and then disappear behind the papers to eat their breakfast in total silence, save the occasional burp and grunt. The newbies like Trent and Sharon will giggle nervously and tease out information about each other that they can’t remember from their drunken exertions the night before.
Trent seemed to have her eating out of the palm of his hand until he made a fatal mistake. She was in mid sentence when his phone rang. He put up one finger as if to say “Stop, somebody more important than you wants to talk to me.” Even though at that point, he had no idea who that other person was. He shouted into the phone like he’d forgotten that electronic impulses carry your voice. In fairness he imparted the minimum information to his caller, that he was indeed very fine and more importantly was having breakfast with a woman. When he hung up, she was waiting to pounce. “Don’t answer your phone when I’m talking to you”. His face was a mass of confusion. He didn’t know her well enough to judge if she was joking. A second later the look on her face confirmed that she wasn’t. He floundered desperately, but it was clear that he was a man in a hole who possessed only a shovel. He did his best to apologise, but it was too late. The 24 hours of spade-work he had just put in had been ruined by one careless moment. As though putting the last card on top had caused the whole house to tumble.
She recognised that she’d been a little tough and tried to soften the blow. But her words were patronising and hollow and he knew it. They made their exits shortly afterwards, with half hearted commitment to call each other. But the moment was gone and even if they go out with each other for the next ten years, they will never recover the electricity and innocence they had before that phone rang.
After I’d got over the feeling that I must have the sort of face that people feel comfortable breaking up in front of, I got to thinking about the fragility of relationships and unfortunately that’s how most of them work out. If we have 100 of them in our lives, 99 will end in heartbreak and the final one in death. But as Professor Levy said in Crimes and Misdemeanours, “it is only we, with our capacity to love that give meaning to the indifferent universe. Most human beings seem to have the ability to keep trying and even try to find joy from simple things, like their family, their work, and from the hope that future generations might understand more.”
Trent and the dress suit guy will no doubt be back looking for love this weekend. I think I’ll join them and not worry about melodramatic scenes on railway platforms. For even on trams, the journey is often better than the destination.
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