Overheard at Borders

Writers are compelled to take notes. Commit to paper every detail that might one day serve a story. I've often pilfered the conversations of others and incorporated them into my stories. I recently transcribed a scene between a father and son at Borders, while drinking a cup of coffee. The dad, who looked to be in his late fifties, sat a table with his son, who was in his early-to-mid thirties. The dad did all the talking. This is what he said:

"Your mom's had a couple of little episodes. She gets that vertigo thing you have. No. Not what you have -- she goes to absolute zero, flat down on her back. She lost ten pounds in two and a half days. She looked like a walking corpse. She starts feeling bad and has to sit down -- she can get up with help and make it to the bathroom. Then she vomits. She's got crystals in her inner ear canal and it kills her balance."

Here, the father paused. The son didn't say a word, and then after a moment, asked, "Want to go?" And just like that, they were gone.

I've often wondered about that son -- why he had no comment to make about his sick mother. There's a story there, and I may tell it. But I know it won't end well.