They were a couple in their late thirties, and they looked
unmistakably married. They sat on the banquette opposite us in a little
narrow restaurant, having dinner. The man had a round, self-satisfied
face, with glasses on it; the woman was fadingly pretty, in a big hat.
There was nothing conspicuous about them, nothing
particularly noticeable, until the end of their meal, when it suddenly
became obvious that this was an Occasion—in fact, the husband’s birthday,
and the wife had planned a little surprise for him.
It arrived, in the form of a small but glossy birthday cake,
with one pink candle burning in the center. The headwaiter brought it in
and placed it before the husband, and meanwhile the violin-and-piano
orchestra played “Happy Birthday to You,” and the wife beamed with shy
pride over her little surprise, and such few people as there were in
the restaurant tried to help out with a pattering of applause. It became
clear at once that help was needed, because the husband was not pleased.
Instead, he was hotly embarrassed, and indignant at his wife for
embarrassing him.
You looked at him and you saw this and you thought, “Oh,
now, don’t be like that!” But he was like that, and as soon as
the little cake had been deposited on the table, and the orchestra had
finished the birthday piece, and the general attention had shifted from
the man and the woman, I saw him say something to her under his
breath—some punishing thing, quick and curt and unkind. I couldn’t bear to
look at the woman then, so I stared at my plate and waited for quite a
long time. Not long enough, though. She was still crying when I finally
glanced over there again. Crying quietly and heartbrokenly and hopelessly,
all to herself, under the gay big brim of her best hat.
Copyright © 1946 The New Yorker. All rights reserved.
Originally published in The New Yorker.
So sad. What a good reminder to look at people's intent, not just their actions.
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