Death and Tea at Three

30 Harold, Isobel, and a Bowl of Ramen

The sun slowly dipped behind the towering buildings. The New York City skyline looked picturesque, and at the very same time felt more real than ever before. Harold looked out the window of the ramen restaurant. He despised window seats, but it was the only seat available in the crammed shop. The restaurant itself was simple. The all-white walls seemed the perfect canvas for the dark mahogany tables throughout.

Harold looked across the table at the girl in front of him. Isobel had barely touched her ramen bowl, as her gaze had not wavered from the city beyond the window.

"Do you not like Ramen?" Harold questioned.

"I love it," Isobel replied enthusiastically.

"Well, I beg to differ seeing as you've barely touched the blasted thing. We might as well have sat on a park bench if you wanted to spend the entire night looking outside."

Isobel picked up her bowl and chopsticks, her eyes still refusing to break their gaze. "It's amazing," she said, with a mouthful of ramen.

"The food or the city?" Harold said, gesticulating to both the bowl and the window. "I can't understand what you're trying to say. And you really shouldn't talk with food in your mouth. It's impolite."

Isobel didn't take notice of his words, she simply continued to eat, her attention still fixed on the concrete jungle before her.

"So..." Harold said, "are you nervous?"

"About what?"

"The audition. It's tomorrow. Or did the plane ride erase your memory? It was only a two-hour flight. It shouldn't have done that much damage."

"Oh, I didn't forget. I just wasn't really thinking about it, I guess," Isobel said with a shrug. Her attention finally breaking away from the city, she stared blankly toward Harold.

"How have you not been thinking about it? This is a huge audition. This could be something special. And you'll be auditioning in front of producers, people in the industry, and other contestants. And you're so young and inexperienced. How has any of this not crossed your mind?"

Isobel nodded her head awkwardly. Her usual cheeky grin transformed into a look of utter confusion. "Okay... I'm nervous now. Thank you for that."

"You're welcome... I guess," Harold replied, unsure of how to respond to Isobel's sarcasm. He glanced down at his bowl of ramen. It was nearly empty, save a few noodles that Harold struggled to pick up with the chopsticks. He looked back up at Isobel. The girl no longer seemed to have any interest in staring out the window, as she seemed preoccupied with swirling her chopsticks in her bowl.

"What do I know? The biggest audience I ever played for was a few local restaurants and the school. You have nothing to worry about," Harold said, his voice trailing off.

"What do you mean?" Isobel questioned, her attention piqued. She stared at him, her eyes illuminated with curiosity. It reminded Harold of the times she had asked him about his piano, or Julia. There was something haunting about those eyes. He never would have thought the eyes of a twelve-year-old could be so soul-piercing.

"I guess what I am trying to say is that I don't really know what you're feeling, because as far as audience scale, I've never performed in front of many people, and I have definitely never performed in front of such important people. You shouldn't listen to me. I don't really know what you're about to go through."

"I don't get it," Isobel replied.

"Of course, you don't. And you shouldn't, either. It's just the ramblings of an old man. Don't mind me."

"No, that's not what I'm saying," Isobel said with an intensity that had been missing all night. "How can you say the people you've played for weren't important? Did anyone ever tell you they liked your music?"

Harold thought for a moment. He found her question peculiar. There was, of course, Julia, but he was sure there were others. There had been old students he had taught who continued playing music long after he taught them, and strangers who had paid him compliments after a set. He may not have been appreciated in the way he desired, but there had been some who showed appreciation. "Yeah, I suppose so," he replied.

"My mom always used to say that you never really know how much someone appreciates the things you do, but that should never stop you from doing them. I'm not sure if that advice makes sense for this, but... I feel like it does. Does it?"

Harold felt a heaviness in his chest. He was not sad, nor was he having a hard time breathing - he was simply overwhelmed. He found her words difficult to digest. He knew deep down that what she said was right but convincing himself of that truth was something he had struggled with his entire life.

"It does," he replied. "It does."

Isobel chuckled quietly, as her cheeky grin stretched wide across her face. "My mom would be really proud of me right now. She says I never listen to her advice, but that's obviously not true."

Harold could feel the muscles in his face twitch, as he, too, smiled widely. As he looked at the girl in front of him, he couldn't help but repeat her advice to himself quietly. "Thank you," he said.

Isobel shrugged nonchalantly. "You don't need to thank me. I didn't do anything."

"I guess, I'm just trying to let you know... that I..." Harold mumbled awkwardly. He always found it difficult to be nice. As if saying nice things made it cheesy or less genuine. He was a firm believer that if you truly cared, you need not say anything. That actions were far more important than any word. However, as of late, he couldn't quite help himself. "I guess... appreciate... you."

"That was really hard for you, wasn't it?" Isobel said calmly.

"Yes, and don't ask me to say anything else like that again, because you won't hear it. And if you tell someone, I will deny it. And who are they really going to believe?" Harold replied with authority. As he finished his rant, a middle-aged woman dressed in a navy business suit at the table beside him took notice. She glanced at Harold sternly.

"It's not what you think," Harold said to the woman. "I was nice to her, and she wants to tell people that. Do you understand?"

The woman's stern look had transformed into confusion. Her mouth drooped open, as if waiting for further explanation.

"Of course, you don't," Harold said dismissively. "Just eat your dinner." He turned back to Isobel and watched as she pretended to sip her drink to hide her laughter, but there was no hiding that grin behind any straw.

"I'm glad you thought it was funny," Harold said.

Isobel began to chuckle behind the straw, but soon the chuckle turned into a full, hearty laugh. Despite Harold's stone-like expression, he found it difficult to maintain composure, and the corner of his lips curled into a smile of his own.

"That'll be the last time I say anything nice. You see, when you try to be too nice, you just make things worse. Keeping it simple works. Remember that," Harold said, as he stood up and pushed his chair in. "We have a long day tomorrow, we should head on out."

And as they walked on out underneath the towering city structures, Harold and Isobel silently appreciated the moment.