Yogurt, Interrupted

                     

           I sit down at a yogurt parlor near Santa Monica Boulevard and Westwood. I’ve eaten this yogurt enough so that it is rather tasteless to me. People swear by it, as I did at first.

            A woman is sitting across at an individual table with one chair. She doesn’t look up from her reading.

            I hesitate, then I say, “What are you reading?”

            She is as still as a deer in the woods. I feel embarrassed. I hesitate. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” I say although I realize that my comment will bother her further.

            She makes a tiny gesture, either with her lips or her eyes, so fast I can not tell which.

            I turn away. Of course I had no right to break her silence. Her not answering irritates me, but she is more right than I am. She didn’t ask me to sit down and open my mouth. Imagine if she had.

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