John and I sat at Norm’s Diner on La Cienega Boulevard at two in the morning.  As he had just been fired from his job on a bullshit game show, I decided to sit in a chair facing the window, allowing John to sit on the padded bench on the opposite side of the table.  John ordered steak with poached eggs.  I ordered rye toast and an arnold palmer.  

The food arrived.  My toast wasn’t properly toasted, but I figured that times must be rough for any waitress working the night shift, so I did not send it back.  John talked about the petty nature of our business while I stared out the window, bored.

In the window’s reflection I saw a man and a woman sit down at the counter behind me.

Her: late teens / early twenties, pretty, short cropped blonde hair, swept away from withdrawn eyes.  Her clothing was standard emo/indie, complete with the requisite studded belt over blue jeans, and torn up chuck taylors. Her body language: timid.

Him: Late thirties, balding.  He was wearing the stereotypical guido tracksuit top, over cheap slacks, and twenty dollar dress shoes. His body language: predatory.

From the instant they sat down I could not stop staring at their reflection in the window.  There was just something not right about the pairing.  These were two people who had no common ground.  I was concerned for her.  Was she a prostitute?  Was he her pimp?

At one point the predatory man stepped off to the bathroom.  In the window’s reflection I saw her glance over at me.  At the time I kept telling myself that I should walk over and quickly and clandestinely ask her if she was okay, and if she wasn’t... perhaps I could somehow wisk her away to safety... I would have liked to have done something.  But shortly the check arrived, the bill was paid, the man returned and John and I got up to leave.  So, instead of doing something, I did nothing.  I have no shame about most of the things I’ve done in this life.  I have lots of shame about some of the things I didn’t do.  This was one of them.

As John and I walked through the parking lot to his car, I looked back through the window.  The man was edging toward her as she tried to edge away.  I mentioned to John that I felt bad about it.  He told me to relax, “She’s just a prostitute.”  I repeated what he said... yeah... just a prostitute... I looked down at my feet as I walked across the asphalt, hating myself for not being as strong as my convictions.