Feeling: relieved
Listening to: Vast - Land of Shame
Reading/Watching: Time of the Twins, Weis & Hickman

Right about the time I got my own job, my little brother found one. Puppy is working as a waiter.

It's become a tradition with us, now. It's expected for us to begin on crap summer jobs to learn how it is to work in the trenches (except Bear, 'cause she's too good for food service, booo), although it's still slightly unfair because he managed to wait until one of our cousins was general manager of a restaurant, so getting a job was not exactly difficult (but shh, you didn't hear it from me).

Tonight, on my impromptu visit home, my parents and I decided to go to the restaurant where Puppy is still training, to test his mettle. We were put in the bar section, and I apparently gave the bartender a heart attack when I teasingly asked Puppy to get me a Purple Squirrel (it's just creme de cacao and amaretto with half & half on the rocks, but it sounds incredibly complicated and practically no one knows what it is, which is part of why I like it).

Then, during dinner, a guy came in and sat down at a keyboard I hadn't noticed was tucked into the corner, and began to play and sing old jazz and country songs. My dad started trying get me to sing (it is one of his singularly annoying habits), and kept at it, no matter how firmly I refused (because honestly, I go to a restaurant to sit down and eat and enjoy the music. Not to show off. Especially not when I have chicken-fried chicken in my throat).

Then the pianist began Westphalia Waltz, and a couple sitting across the room began to dance. I tried convincing Mom and Dad to get up and join them, partially because I honestly didn't believe it would happen, and partially because some little corner of me needed to see my parents being a couple instead of an old marriage.

Finally Dad stood, saying, "Okay, we're dancing, but that means you have to sing."

I grumped, and glared, but forgot to be annoyed once they started dancing.

My parents are both fifty. They've been married thirty years. They're a couple decades past being cute and romantic, at least in front of their children. But suddenly they're holding hands, and my mom has her arm around his neck, and I'm remembering exactly how tall he is, dwarfing her (even though she's my height, 5'9", and thereby a far cry from petite), and they're stepping in time, my dad more focused on keeping the beat and minding his feet, my mom smiling and watching his face.

In light of recent events, it was just good to see. I watched them, grinning, until tears filled my eyes and they were a shifting blur. Puppy came by and leaned against the booth for a few moments, watching them dance, before he had to leave again to take care of some tables.

It's hard to faithfully describe the two of them. They were a bit rusty, verging on awkward at times when it came to negotiating the floor with the other couple, but they came back to the table smiling.

I doubt they understood why I was quite so intense about making them dance together, since I haven't told them about Bri's parents splitting up, but something in my heart feels a little more quiet, a little more safe, now that I've come home for five minutes to remind myself that people aren't always broken.

It's becoming far too easy to get lost in the wild maudlin tangle; extracting myself shouldn't have to take 200 miles to accomplish.

(And just so you know, yes I did have to get up and sing, because darned if the piano guy wasn't all nice and accomodating and handed a microphone over without a fuss, so I had no real reason to argue. He played while I sang Come Rain or Come Shine, about 80,000 times slower than I sang it with the jazz combo, and it was very nondescript and simple, and immediately afterward, two other people asked if they could sing, too, so it wasn't a big deal. One of these days I need to break Dad's habit of doing that, because I doubt he realizes how much it bugs me now.)

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