People sit silently, minding their own business. The whirl of the coffee grounds pierces the air. I sit in the red, rubber booth, near the window.
Everyone gazes at their screens. Their eyes remain distant. It’s as if nothing else exists.
I check my phone. It’s almost 11:30 pm. No notification. Tuesday will be here soon enough.
“Extra hot, oat milk latte with honey for Amber,” shouts the barista working the counter. No one goes to the counter. The barista looks around the cafe. “Ugh, Amber?”
A young woman approaches the counter. She dresses in all black. She locks eyes with the barista, and for a moment, time stands still for them.
“That’s ugh, that’s me. Thanks,” the woman says, gripping the mug. She turns her back without saying a word, but the hint of a love poem moistens her lips. The barista, face flushed, whispers back, “Have a good night.”
Amber does not respond. She takes her place at the booth near the entrance.
The doors open. A middle-aged couple enters. They shuffle to a nearby booth. A server greets them at their table and takes their order. A young man, probably studying at the local university, leaves them with a smile and a pat on the table.
I can’t hear the couple, but I’d like to imagine they have been coming here for years. A ritual for them. Maybe they’ve come every Monday night for twenty-five years.
They order the same meal and the same drinks, and go over the same stories they have told hundreds of times before. But every single time, the stories change just a bit.
The middle-aged man locks eyes with me, and I turn to look out the window. To be seen is to be known.
Cars drive by like great mechanical beasts, rain careening off their windshields, hiding the occupants.
I return to the thought of the couple. I hope the man makes her happy. It would be a very sad life to spend with someone whose stories you can’t bear to hear.
I lift a mug to my mouth. The bitterness of the coffee coats my tongue; I don’t wince.
I check my phone again—11:45 pm. No notifications.
I turn to my left and observe the cooks. There are two of them, and they are both laughing—one older man and one younger man. The older man is bald and appears to be missing a tooth in the middle of his mouth. Every time he laughs, he opens his mouth and sticks his tongue through the gap and collapses his body in on itself. The young man is red-faced, tears streaming down his face.
From the way the older man is patting the younger one on the back, it’s a joke that’s been told before and is funnier every time they tell it.
The coffee is room temperature. It’s turned from bitter to sour. I still sip from it, not wanting to flag down the waiter. That would ruin the moment. So, I keep sipping.
The barista idly watches Amber in her seat. She looks flummoxed and unsure what to do with herself. She interlocks her hands, pulls them apart, and locks them again. She probably fell in love the moment Amber walked in. Amber takes a sip of her coffee.
The waiter whisks past me carrying two plates. Both have a stack of pancakes on them. One has two, the other has four. The short stack is for the woman, and the tower is for the man.
The young cook has left the kitchen and made his way towards the couple. A swell of smoke from the grill hides the older cook’s face. The smell of sizzling bacon wafts through the air. I wonder if the cook still likes the smell of bacon. What kind of stories soak onto that grill, I wonder.
My phone dings and lights up. I turn it over and see one notification.
Madison.
I stare for a second. My finger hovers over the screen.
I set the phone back down on the table. I pick up the lukewarm mug and finish off the coffee. A shiver runs down my spine. I wince.
It’s midnight.
I slide myself through the booth and onto the cold, sticky tiles. I pick up my phone from the table and slide it into my pocket, but not before shutting it off. I grab the mug and head in the direction of the couple.
As I pass them on my way to the door, I can see that they have barely touched their food. The man is speaking about an old friend. The woman already knows the ending to this story, but she humors him anyway. I wonder who the friend is and where he is now.
I pass by Amber. She is typing away at her keyboard. I make out a line about a mermaid. Is she studying mermaids? Is she, herself, a mermaid? She certainly looks like one, ethereal in a way.
I stop at the trash bin near the door. A stack of plates, mugs, and silverware sits atop the old, wooden structure. I set my mug on top of the other mugs, making sure to put it down gently. The employees are already working late; I’d rather not burden them more.
At the door, I stop for a second. I close my eyes, lower my head, and sigh. I gently reach my hand to the door. It’s sturdy and extremely heavy.
In the brisk night air, I let the raindrops coat my head. I open my eyes and look to the sky. The clouds block the moon. But the city looks so beautiful, its lights glistening in the dark.
I reach my hand into my pocket and grip my phone. I get it about halfway out of my pocket before I release my grip and feel the heavy plastic slide back down.
It’s Tuesday.