Schadenfreude

I'm sitting at the opposite end of the table from two young women, late twenties, as one bitches to the other about her boyfriend.

"I used to think he gets me..."

"I wasn't even thinking about marriage..."

"Yeah, I miss him when he's not around, but that's fine..."

On and on, I wanted to respect her privacy, but I couldn't. I mean I was literally unable to ignore the conversation.

"He's one of those people who really enjoys it when other people are miserable. There's a word for it...

schadenfreude.

...it begins with an 's.'"

"Cynical?"

oh, lord. schadenfreude.

"No..."

"Sadist?"

well, at least that actually begins with an 's'.

"No. Anyway, it really makes him happy."


Frank can see that I am dying, he can see that I know the word, "Why don't you help her out?" he whispers.

"No. I can't. If I do it'll be obvious that I'm eavesdropping."


Finally we finish lunch and as we walk away from the table I can't help myself, "The word is 'schadenfreude.'"

She looks up and smiles, point at me and nods. As I walk away a look of confusion settles over her face.


Why can't I just leave well enough alone?