I'll occasionally drive into town, have a cup of coffee, and practice at least two of the three "Rs": reading; 'riting. But 'rithmetic, not so much. Today, I nestled into a comfortable booth at a Community Coffee house and cracked open a book to read. There were Southern thunderstorms rattling the plate glass windows. It was warm and dry inside. The aroma of freshly roasted coffee filled the air.

It was nearly perfect.

Until an older couple--well, I say older, but more and more, people whom I regard as "older" are likely younger than I am--took a table across the room and launched into a bizarre conversation.

It was difficult to determine the relationship between the man and the woman. It seemed almost professional, but in an awkward sort of way. There was a familiarity between the two of them, and yet they--particularly the "he," younger than his companion--seemed a tad ill at ease. I wondered if he might have been a parole officer, a social worker, perhaps  an uninspired friend or disenfranchised son.

She spoke with a rich, throaty voice, something I typically find quite attractive in a woman. But this woman's distinctive voice was bespoiled by a plaintive overtone and a volume knob twisted all the way to the right. It was as if Emmy Lou Harris had become the lead vocalist for Metallica.

Her companion, by contrast, spoke in a subdued voice that was somehow at once monotonous and pulsing. If she was Emmy Lou Harris of Metallica, he was a weary bass player with a repertoire of three chords--playing the same passionless riff regardless of the song. His words were without expression and without pause.

He reminded me, by contrast, of the biblical prophet Daniel, who had the ability to interpret the king's dream and--of greater wonder--to first describe the dream itself. Emmy Lou's companion would finish each sentence that she began and then would offer his observation and interpretation. But this man was no Daniel. He was, in fact, remarkably unskilled at anticipating his coffee mate's next thought and its point. Yet when Emmy Lou inevitably corrected him, he flawlessly segued into his next, flawed intrusion.

And so their strangely hypnotic conversation continued. Both of them speaking. Neither of them listening; neither of them hearing.

It was a reminder that many unfortunates don't have the opportunity either to hear or to be heard; either to know or to be known; either to see or to be seen. A reminder that listening is the very language that love speaks.