It was apparent that the young Roger wanted to talk. Harris learned that he was twenty-two years old and he had been married two years before his wife passed away unexpectedly. There was a complication with her pregnancy, and she passed, leaving him with neither wife nor child. He seemed to reside in a perpetual state of confusion. Harris by now had come to realize that grief presents its face in divers forms, and no one knows it the same way.
While Roger had been telling his story, Harris noted that the lady, the one named Anna, had turned and leaned a little more in his direction as she listened intently to the story of loss Roger related. A glance from Harris and he saw that her brown eyes were kindly eyes. Loving eyes, even. It came to him without prompting, that she had a pretty, and yes, even a comfortable face. That he meant for the best of reasons. Comfortable is good.
Dinner was served, with orders from the menu, and a refill of the glass, and he became aware that Roger had sunk into a state of melancholy which with the drinks the young man was swallowing, he was slipping into a state of sentimentalism of grief and inebriation. The young man was still very much lost in his grief and Harris saw that he was on the verge of giving way to sobbing.
Harris felt helpless. He knew no words to make the situation right and he felt the nervous embarrassment rising, leaving him slightly red of face and wishing he were somewhere else. Now Roger had buried his face in his hands and was weeping.
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