The small cafe is filled to the brim with chatter as people come and go. The espresso machine periodically hisses in tempo with the fluttering conversation. I sit at a corner table, away from the bar and line of customers. The register clangs shut. The ebb and flow of the café unfurls in front of my voyeur eyes.
I pause from writing, take a glance and a sip of warm coffee. Laughter erupts. Conflict develops. Discussion thickens.
Two people, sitting nearby discuss the sorrowful economic gloom: “desperate people without money,” “my paycheck was too small,” “I need more hours,” and I think to myself, here we all are, splurging a handful of dollar bills on coffee.
A young girl sits on a couch across the naturally lit room. Something about her interests me. Her eyes are buried in a book. I catch them darting up, often, at one of the baristas. Her face is tense. Worry spills over the book. Great Expectations. Dickens. I wonder why she is reading a good ole Chuck novel. School, maybe. Perhaps she enjoys the taut lifestyle of the 1800s. Will she someday tell a story about her life, an event that happened years in the past, looking back with the wisdom of age?
She nips at her coffee. Her short brown hair stops just beneath her small, round ears. Parts of silver dangle below her hair, competing for attention. Her clothes are neat and comfortable. The kind you would wear for a lazy Sunday afternoon of reading in front of a large window with a cat at your side. Furtively, she glances up; the barista and her exchange an awkward lock of eyes. Realizing this, she swiftly dashes her eyes back into the world of Pip. The barista’s face shifts from peach to red. Embarrassment emanates from him like a summer rainstorm.
My coffee is cold from my distractions. But fortunately, it still appeals to the palate. The chatter seems to close in, stuffing the room with words completely unrelated. I order another coffee. I want the earthquake jitters, driven by too much caffeine—the emptiness in the gut and the queasiness and foreboding of too much coffee.
Her book sits heavy in her hand. Her hand clutches a paper cup. Coffee, I presume. Between pages she takes delicate sips. The barista, now aware of her presence continues to create concoctions of espresso and water. Ill at ease, they barter glances again, both flushed, like a toilet, in red. Something happened between these two. A major event ties the black haired, hipster serving coffee to the shorthaired Dickens reading girl on the sofa.
A steaming cup of coffee appears on my table. I thank the barista and notice his nametag, Nathan. He glances at the girl on the sofa as he returns to the espresso machine. She is aware of his tactical movements. She delicately keeps her nose hidden between her hardcover book covers. Solid black with a white barcode taped to the back cover. I can just make out the words, Washoe County Library. She glances up again only to watch Nathan pour the espresso and answer to the needy caffeine junkies like myself.
I continue to feed my addiction. Pure black gold. The robust depth of coffee settles nicely on my tongue as I swish it around. Swallowing it only when I’ve satisfied my desire for flavor.
Nathan pours a cup of coffee, but no customers wait. He takes it for himself and walks around the bar. I notice the large white clock on the wall next to the espresso machine. The large black hands sit comfortably at eleven o’clock. The tide of conversation has faded to murmurs.
He sits down on the couch. The girl stops reading. He sips his coffee. She sets Chuck down, open, face down on her crosses thighs.
“What are you doing?” she asks. I can hear every word. Promiscuously, I listen and search for a connection between the two.
“Taking a break. How’ve you been?” he answers back. Nathan sets his coffee down.
“Well, yourself.”
“Good. I just started working here. Do you come here often?” he asks. Delaying the answers to the questions he desires to ask.
“I do,” is all she says. I could see her disgust and lack of desire to maintain this conversation. Her eyes focus on the shiny silver band on his left hand.
“Cool.” The conversation grows stagnant. Nathan notices her eyes. He discloses his marriage. Her name is Judy.
I can see her eyes welling up. The light glistens on the moisture. She holds her tears back.
“Congratulations,” she mentions. “How long?”
“Just over a year now. She is the love of my life.” He says, not realizing the implications.
“Nathan, you’re an asshole. I don’t give a shit about her. Or you. You just sit down here like we’re best friends and start talking about the love of your life. What made you think I’d want to heart about that?”
Struck with confusion, I can see Nathan struggling to find the right words. “I just wanted to catch up. Say hello. I figured you wouldn’t mind. It’s been almost two years now.” He nervously sips at his coffee. “I never met to hurt you, you know that—”
“Bullshit. I don’t fucking believe you.” The outburst halts a few floating conversations. But the girl doesn’t seem to care. “If that was the case, you wouldn’t have fucked her, while dragging me along for pity. Come on Nathan, stop lying to your self. I loved you and you threw me in the dirt.” Her face now filled with the red of anger, remorse, and sorrow.
The small enclaves of people struggle to kick start their conversation. Realizing the sudden silence, the two begin to speak softer. I sip at my coffee.
“Alice, don’t be so rash. I want to apologize. Believe me, I never meant to hurt you, honestly. Things just happened too fast and I couldn’t, I mean, I didn’t know what to do. I dug myself a hole. Anyways, I just want to say, I’m sorry.” He stood up and returned to espresso machine. A few customers had just paid for eloquent coffee drinks.
Alice just sat there. The book draped over her thigh. I could see resentment rising from her trembling hands. A moment, a time of despair and sorrow in her life, flashed back, in full detail. Could the dryness of a Victorian England re-captivate her attention? She slammed the book shut and slid it into her handbag embroidered with flowers.
After another sip of coffee, feeling guilty for watching this drama unfold, I glance at her and catch her eyes. I offer a discomforted smile. Hoping to comfort her shaken world. Her heart had been shattered and she hasn’t repaired it. But what could I do? A fifty something, caffeine addicted derelict of a poet. She smiled back and disappeared. Nathan barely noticed her silent departure. The realization of what he had done to her hit him as sudden as the crash of a wave on a rocky shore.
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