Just Two People

Yesterday, I had coffee with someone I hadn’t seen in 25 years. At least, that’s what he told me. I don’t remember meeting him at all.

That didn’t seem to matter much. We sat down with our coffee, and instead of trying to reconstruct something that happened a quarter century ago, we started with a much more interesting question.

What are you up to these days?

And off we went.

One story led to another. We talked about things we’re doing, people we know, and some of the things we’re wondering about. We talked about a few of the troubles in our lives, too. Nothing was off limits, but nothing seemed to take over the conversation. Mostly, we were just interested in each other.

There was quite an age difference between us—almost 24 years—but that didn’t seem to matter either. We listened. We asked questions. We told stories. We laughed a lot. The whole thing was remarkably easy.

After about an hour, it was time to go. We stood up and said goodbye. Not “see you next week.” Not even “see you around.” Just goodbye.

And I walked away with this warm feeling of friendship.

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I’ve been thinking about that hour ever since. I notice scenes like this all the time. Two people sitting over coffee. Three or four gathered around a table. Someone is telling a story. Someone else is laughing. People lean toward each other. Another cup of coffee arrives.

They’re not fixing anything. They’re just there. And somehow, lately, that seems important.

There is plenty happening outside our coffee shops and kitchen tables. There are real problems, real disagreements, real reasons to be concerned about one another and about the world we’re living in. 

None of that disappears because two people decide to have coffee. But it doesn’t have to occupy every chair at the table either. Sometimes the person sitting across from us isn’t a Republican or a Democrat. They aren’t their age, their job, their opinion, or whatever label we might have attached to them before we sat down.

They’re just a person. A person with stories. Someone who has known happiness and disappointment. Someone who worries about things. Someone who has people they love. Someone who has lived a life we know almost nothing about.

And when the conversation is allowed to wander, we sometimes get to meet that person. Yesterday, that’s what happened to me. We didn’t ignore the difficult parts of our lives. We talked about some of them. We simply didn’t stay there. The conversation kept moving. Another story. Another question. Another laugh.

An hour later, we got up, said goodbye, and went back to our lives. The problems we’d talked about were still there. So were all the problems we hadn’t talked about. But for an hour, two people who barely knew each other had simply sat across a table, listened well, shared a few pieces of their lives, and laughed.

Lately, I’ve been noticing how often that happens. And how good it is to see.

A Quiet Question

When was the last time I simply enjoyed being with another person?