Tell Me, Said the Elephant...

Scenes of bonds breaking play out.

Ramon sits alone in the booth furthest from the diner's door, his back to the wall, his right shoulder resting lightly against the window that provides an unobstructive view of the adjacent parking lot. A wall clock hangs a few feet directly above the large coffee urns, displaying a time that amplifies the pending moment. "Ten minutes," he whispers to himself as the wizened server walks by.
         "More coffee, hon?" she asks, as the pot hovers over the table.
         "I'm good. Thanks," Ramon replies without making eye contact.
         Cecille walks off with a nonchalance that could make a house cat take notes. The toddler at the four-top near the restrooms is staging a shrieking protest for her Labubu.
         The screen on his cellphone resting on the table lights up, indicating that he received a new text message, and Ramon glances at it. It's from Miranda. He presses the side button on the cellphone to darken the screen once more. He can't talk to her. Not right now.
         A couple of minutes earlier than expected, Luis enters the diner, looking as he always does. Dark, heavy tones and a leather jacket no matter the temperature outside. They make quick eye contact and Luis maneuvers around the tables, half of which sit empty at this time of day, to slide into the booth across the table from Ramon.
         Like clockwork, Cecille finds her way to the booth. "Anything I can grab for you, hon?" she asks the newcomer, the coffee pot seeming to be affixed to her right hand.
         "Glass of milk, the real kind," Luis says, also averting the server's inquiring gaze.
         Luis does not see Cecille's right eyebrow arch before wordlessly making her way toward the kitchen. A few beats pass between the two gentlemen seated at the far booth as rain begins to gently mist the windows.
         "You look good," Luis finally says.
         Ramon smirks. "Thanks." Then: "That it?"
         Luis keeps his eyes on the table, momentarily glancing at Ramon's cellphone whose screen was once again alit, the earlier text message seeming to prove its significance in the moment. He sighs. "I don't know what else to say. I've already said I'm sorry. Very, very sorry, hermano."
         Ramon clocks the language switch, a sign of deference, of yielding--something he's not accustomed to often experiencing from his brash, bold younger brother. "Was it just that one time?"
         Luis doesn't respond right away. That was an answer enough to Ramon. "I'm sorry..." Luis finally says.
         Ramon looks out the window. The rain has started to come down hard and he muses it to be the perfect backdrop.
         "You are leaving town tonight," he says, as a statement, not as a question.
         Luis nods his head without meeting his older brother's eyes. "Yes..."
         "And you are not coming back," Ramon adds. "For a while. Not until I say so. If ever. Understand?"
         "Si, mi hermano," Luis says after a beat.
         No one else in the diner knows the gravity of the scene playing out between the de Guzman brothers in the furthest booth from the entrance. Among the din of silverware clinking on oval ceramic plates, fare from the all-day breakfast menu is being consumed, passable cheeseburgers and greasy fries are being chomped on, and coffee that requires way too much cream to be enjoyed is being imbibed. Cecille-- clearly having forgotten about the milk order-- is perched on the counter reading about the kind of month she is about to have as a Sagittarius.
         "You are not my brother," Ramon says with a finality in his voice.
         Luis responds by simply getting out of the booth. He pauses at the end of the table before turning around and making his way to the exit, head hanging low despite the bravado he'd hoped to portray. The door chime punctuates his departure from the diner. And, likely, from Ramon's life.
         In his periphery, Ramon notices the screen on his cellphone light up once more, now appearing to show multiple unread text messages from Miranda. He presses the side button again to darken the screen, the gesture seeming to color his next steps.



Miranda paces the kitchen as the Portland rain pelts the skylight above the center island. She looks at her phone again. Still no response from her husband.
         My husband, she thinks. My sweet husband. He doesn't deserve this!
         Her eyes start to well as she hears the Buick pull up the driveway, soon followed by the unmistakable sound of a car door being shut. Was it an angry sound? Miranda wonders then shakes her head as if to cast the superfluous thought away. She doesn't deserve such musings. Not anymore.
         Ramon enters the house and heads straight to the kitchen to find his wife standing attentively at the center island, her hands clasped and resting on the counter, her expression pleading.
         He places a thick envelope on the counter and partially slides it away from him. "This should get you by for six months."
         Miranda chokes back a tear. "Mi amor--"
         Ramon shoots her an expression impossible for Miranda to misinterpret, and she stops herself from expressing the rest of her thought. She simply nods and picks up the envelope from the countertop on her way to the living room where her suitcase was waiting. As if on cue, the yellow cab pulls up at the curb outside the house, the sound of horns signaling its arrival.
         Miranda pauses after opening the door. Before stepping out, she turns around to look at her husband and finds him with his back to her. She feels a tightness in her chest, as if the overwhelming ache is still foreign.
         "I'm sorry, mi amor," she says, steps out, and closes the door behind her.



Ramon finally lets out a breath minutes after Miranda's departure. It's not relief. Instead, it's an acknowledgement of matters no longer needing to be said.