Patterns In Thoughts

There were four seats reserved for five guests. None of us said a word about this purposeful mistake. Well, the last guest never shows up anyway, so his chair must have been removed; I guess that would make it four seats reserved for four guests. After all, there was no point in leaving a chair for him; a person is composed of patterns, and his pattern of never attending has made him a disappearing act in our everlasting rehearsed play. 

We each ensconced ourselves to our designated seats around the perfectly circular table, a table designed so that one can see all – not at equal portions, of course, but equitable portions. If we were to dine at a rectangular table, two of us would sit contiguously to each other like stale  dolls that would never be able to admire each other's faces. We would see one hundred percent of the other two guests who were placed right in front of us, but zero percent of each other, unless of course, we sat at an odd angle, where our waist would rotate; the skin on our necks stretching and pulling so our eyes could make eye contact; or just outright ignore each other completely with the exception of our peripheral views. Instead this round table lets us see all; I see one hundred percent of the women sitting in front of me; I see seventy-five percent of the old man sitting to my left; and I see seventy-five percent of the young girl who sits to my right. That is fifty percent more visuals than if we were to sit at a rectangular table. 

The timeless senior had white and grey noodle strands as his hair; a splattered sauce that freckled his balding spots; and a deep navy suit that hoped to bring out the young from the old. I enjoyed when we would have discussions; they were always gentlemanly, whether about politics or our current readings. Even when we would disagree, there was not an ounce of conflict between us, ever – except possibly this one time, regarding the guest who never attended, but I would prefer not to think about that at this moment. The miss who sat on my right, on the other hand, was too hot headed for any conversation; she always confidently chirped in about her opinions validated by her lived experiences, as if her life was something we all had to appreciate in order to make sense of the world around us. She was merely annoying, but annoying because she was able to bring thought-provoking cognizance to our conversations, alluding to specifics we mentioned in debate that no one else ever thought of. The woman who sat in front of me, however, was detestable. Her boring brown eyes added nothing to our conversations, staring off at the candles that lit the dim dining room, as though she was caught up in the whimsical world of her mind, and she remained silent at all times. The seating chart forced me to stare at the spiritless lady who rested in front of me – I am going to have to have a word with whoever arranged this. But no one ever appeared to address my concern, terrible service, I must say.  

Our main courses appeared before us, I lifted up my pristine fork that could be mistaken for a weapon if held the wrong way, and I rolled the strands of pasta into a forever entanglement together. The noodles were trapped in a knot I created and I hefted the weak strings to my starving mouth and clamped down on my meal. 

There was only silence today. We were all like the lady who sat in front of me, except maybe she wasn’t entranced by the world within her mind, but trapped, like we were all now – imprisoned to our thoughts. Her thoughts might have rendered her useless, or maybe she had no thoughts in that mind of hers; that was unlikely. Every night, the four of us would dine at this table, and tonight we had exhausted every possible thing to talk about, so we sat at the perfectly round table and let our blaring thoughts speak for us. 

As my robotic arm kept feeding this never ending hunger, my eyes glazed past the women, towards the candles that were specifically scattered around us to decorate tonight’s ordinary dinner. One towering candle; then a stubby one; then a standard one, and the pattern persists, creating an alluring cohesion. The melody glided across the billowy flames, and then the cadence halts to a screeching noise: there were two short candles contiguous with each other. It was out of order, disintegrated music was all that remained, gone with the perfection – the symmetry was ruined.

A lock clicks open; the front door swings open, and reveals a man wearing round glasses, a light olive green jacket, and curly frizzled black hair; the wind outside must be strong. We were not expecting another guest, but we all gladly welcomed the distraction that diverts us away from the silent noise. Our fifth guest had finally decided to join the family affair.