You, too

 It was one of those summer afternoons that seemed to go on forever.  The heat filled the small room and pushed us oozing into our seats.

When I looked over, John was fiddling with his phone.

"Anything good?" I drawled.

He grunted.

"Good to hear.  Keep me posted." I said.

The heat and silence ballooned oppressively. I slumped further on the couch and stared hazily at the patterns in the cracks in the ceiling.

"Can I get your opinion on something?" I finally asked. "Just until until Noah gets here, I know we've gotta go soon."  

He flipped his phone down into his lap and looked at me.  

"Bout what?" 

"It's a story I've been thinking about. Haven't written it down yet. Too much effort."

"That's a mood. Let's hear it."

"Okay, cool, will you tell me if you agree afterward?  Maybe I'll write it down after all."  He didn't respond, but I was already deep in thought.  The scrap of an idea had been floating around in my head for a while, and now, on this sweltering afternoon, it seemed more whole than ever.

"Okay, here's the story, there's a man and a woman in an unhappy relationship..."

---

"Well," Alice said, and the word hung there opaque and ugly, like the plastic rings of a six-pack floating in the sea.  Just waiting for me to stick my neck in and get stuck.

"Well, what?" It was more of a statement than a question. Wasn't inclined to make this easy for her, after all the charity she'd shown me. She stalked to the sink and grabbed a cig.

"Jesus, do that outside, will you?  Filthy habit."

"You stink up the bathroom every morning but you don't see me complaining."

"My farts don't cause lung cancer."

"We're not here to talk about my fucking smoking," she growled. "Or your farts."

"Then spit it out already."

---

"This isn't about that girl, you know, ummm," John gestured emptily with his hand.

"Emry? Nah, not really... anyway," My frustration at being interrupted flared. "Can I finish?"

John looked stricken. I hadn't meant to be so sharp; I felt bad.

"Anyway," I said. "Then she says,"

---

"Can I tell you a story?"

---

John said, "Yeah."

"No," I said heatedly.  "That's what the character says.  She says 'Can I tell you a story?'"

"Oh, I see.  Got it." He said.  I gave him a look.  

"My bad, I'll keep quiet from now on.  Swear on me mum's grave," he said.  "I'm actually kind of curious now."

---

"Can I tell you a story?" Alice says. I really don't want to to hear it, but I know that my answer doesn't matter here, that she's going to tell her damn, I'm-oh-so-right story either way. So I just sit there, still as a statue, and say nothing.

She catches on pretty quick, and knits her eyebrows at me like I'm a naughty little kid. "Wow, classy. I'll keep it quick."

"When I was in high school, taking all those APs and stuff.  You know."  I gestured to let her know that I had heard, at length.  "My gramps sat me down one day."

She was squinting up at the ceiling in that way that she had when she was about to go on one of her involved rambles.  I sighed.  There was no stopping her when she was like this.

"He said, 'Ali, (which was what he called me), I know I'm an old fogey (he was always so self deprecating), I'm an old fogey but I've learnt a thing or two.  And when you get to be my age, all you want to do is to try to prevent the next generation from making the same mistakes you made.  Maybe we're built to be that way.  Mother Nature knows I'm not much good for anything else.'" She smiled blithely.

"Ok." I said flatly.

"I'm getting there, if you'd just listen."

"I'm sure you are."

She scowled at me again before continuing.

"Ali, you're bright and determined, mi cielo.  You will make your own path, and nothing between heaven and Earth will stop you. So please just take this as advice from your loving gramps (that was what he always called himself). Way back, when my family first came to America..."

---

My parents arrived in America with what they could carry in a suitcase.  From as early as I could remember, they were always working.  My mother was always bustling this way and that, with a far off look in her eyes, as if she were peering out to the end of the day when she could finally rest. My pa would leave at sun-up and return after dark.  That was my childhood.

When I arrived in college, I resolved to work as hard as I possibly could.  I never wanted to be poor again, and I wanted to make sure my parents could rest comfortably after their years of incessant labor.  

I found a job as a lab assistant, and worked nights at a grocery store (I think it was called A&B, or maybe it was A&P).  Every day, I'd wake up, study in the morning, then work from the afternoon until night.  I lived frugally and sent what I could back home.

One day, as I was shelving Hershey's Hot Chocolate (that's one of the few brands that survived from back then, it used to be real chocolate, did you know?), a woman walked into the store.  She was the most beautiful girl I had ever saw.  I remember thinking, "I would be a happy man for the rest of my life if I married that woman."

Now I know what you're thinking.  No, that wasn't your grandmother.  

She'd come to the store to pick up groceries twice a week, like clockwork.  Pretty soon, I gathered the courage to approach her.  The Byrds were playing that weekend and I figured I'd ask her to the concert.  (Heard of them? They were b-i-i-i-g when I was your age.)  I walked up to her, and just as I was about to open my mouth, I saw that she had a wedding ring on. She was already turning to face me.

"Excuse me," I said. "Your husband is a very lucky man."

I still remember her bittersweet smile. It has stuck with me for the rest of my life.

---

"That's it.  Gramps wouldn't say anymore.  I told him I didn't understand, but he just said that that was all that he had to say, and I should decide how to live my own life."

"Okay? Cool?"  I said.  "What does that have to do with literally anything?"

---

"And that's it." I said.

"I don't get it," said John.  "Anyway, I think Noah will be here soon."