June 2
The Coffee Shoppe on Sepulveda offered the usual coffees, lattes, frappucinos, and herb teas found at any California coffee shop these days. But, unlike its better-known competitors, it also offered a quiet environment for studying, web browsing, or conversation. Sarah and I ordered coffee, waited for it to be prepared, and grabbed a corner table, isolated from the other tables by a large plastic plant.
“So,” I prompted.
Sarah took a sip of coffee, set the cup back on the table, and stared out the window at the traffic on Sepulveda. For a long moment, she said nothing.
When she finally did speak, she didn’t look at me. She addressed her remarks to the cars passing by outside.
“I used to be married,” she said. “I think I wanted someone to take care of me. That’s what he wanted, too. It didn’t work out, for obvious reasons.”
“That was your ex-husband?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, her voice quiet.
“What did he want?” I asked.
“Money,” she replied. “I used to have half my paycheck put into his checking account. When we were married, that helped pay for the house payment. But when we split up, even though we sold the house, he insisted that I keep doing it. Last month I asked the company to stop, and now he’s pissed.”
“Did you have to pay him anything in the divorce?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “We’d been married only a couple of years. And we didn’t have any kids. The divorce was easy: we just signed the papers and walked away. Only now he thinks I owe him something.”
“How long have you been separated?” I asked.
“About eighteen months,” she said.
I sipped my coffee and thought about that. She’d been separated less than a year when we started working together. No wonder she wouldn’t date me.
“Has he ever hurt you?” I asked.
She stared out the window, as if the answer might be out there. “Yes,” she said, finally. “When he gets angry, he hits me.”
I felt my face flush. “That son of a bitch,” I muttered.
“Listen,” Sarah said, turning to face me for the first time since we’d arrived. “This is my problem, not yours. You’re a nice guy, and I appreciate your help. But I don’t expect you to save me.”
The “nice guy” label rankled me: usually that’s the kind of guy women like to talk to but not date.
“Sometimes I’m not so nice,” I said. “Guys who hit women really piss me off.”
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