Explain me, Emily.

“There is a sort of beauty in the chaos. Don’t you think so, Sarah?”
Emily wiped her nose with the fresh linen run out by a frantic young waiter who wasn’t used to catering to young women, so he carried his shoulders too high, and too tight, and then his arms started to hurt, so he shuffled his feet (to compensate for a lack of upper body mobility) and this caused the soup that he was carrying to slosh around in its fine china bowl, and the sloshing let the now free soup crawl up her chin onto her nose, so the new, young, shuffling waiter had to bring fresh linen to Emily, and, my God, she was a fan of determinism.
“Yes, I suppose there is.” Sarah tapped her cigarette lightly, brushing the ashes off of the table. She spoke again: “But somehow I always lose sight of the beauty, and become enthralled by the mistakes.”
“Mistakes?”
“Yes.”
Emily held her breath, hoping for further explanation, but none came. To end Sarah’s thought she sipped her soup, and blew out exhaustively—to push the cigarette smoke away.
“Like what?” She asked, after wiping her mouth.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Sarah thought for a moment, letting the silence of the conversation cling to the air so that neither her nor Emily could escape its brooding passion. ‘Take the waiter, for instance.” She continued.
“What about him?”
“Well I was here last week, staring in through the window, and I saw him slip and crash a bus load of dishes into that wall.”
“So?”
“Well, that was a mistake.”
Emily coolly raised her glass, being careful to avoid the lemon slice, and gently coaxed a piece of ice into her mouth. “There are many mistakes in the world, Sarah.”
“Yes, but this one is important.”
A curious eyebrow raised from behind Sarah’s smoke bequeathed Emily’s response:
“Important?”
“I wouldn’t have chosen this restaurant if he hadn’t crashed.”
“Now, Sarah, what is the importance of that?”
Sarah leaned back gracefully, emerging out of the clouds of smoke that surrounded their table, into the rest of the restaurant—leaving the bubble of their conversation. She lifted her hair from the back of her neck lightly bouncing her dark curls so that they fell slightly farther down her back. She re-entered the bubble: “ Well, Emily, what if that waiter makes another mistake. Like spilling soup on my dress”—it was a nice dress, a day dreaming flowery affair that clung to her hips and thighs—“and then he would apologize profusely and we would fall in love.”
“I don’t know, Sarah. Maybe we should find a new restaurant—check please.”
The waiter rushed over, check in hand.
“Everything all right today?”
“Yes, quite fine thank you. You can expect a large tip.”
“Glad to hear it, here you go.” He dropped the check on the table leaving a resounding thud, and an indifferent customer.
“Sarah.”
“Yes”.
“Why can’t mistakes be beautiful too?”