by G.C. Collins
I was in the city recently, killing time at this cafe and waiting for you to get done with work. It was a Friday afternoon close to the winter holidays. We were going to grab some drinks and dinner and, if we were still up for it, catch a late night showing of a movie we had simultaneously texted each other about a week ago. It was from a director we both liked, and we’d seen some of her work before. Also, I hadn’t seen you in a while and thought that a trip into the city would be fun. There usually wasn’t a place to stay for me, and I didn’t confirm anything with you before taking the train, but I figured if you were in a good mood, you would let me sleep in your bed as you had when I had come over in the past and we were both single.
That was the unspoken rule that I learned to trust over the years I’ve known you. Sometimes, but not every time I slept in your bed, you would kiss me around midnight, and we would have a quick bout, as if it was a surprise for both of us. Afterwards, we lingered in each other’s field of vision but did not lounge comfortably, nakedly, as lovers did. You were always quick to put on underwear. You were pretty but not my type, I guess, and maybe that’s how I was to you, but we had never talked about it. In the mornings after, a whiff of desperation hung in the air, as if we both needed some human touch but could only give it to each other formally. This was why we never even considered dating. Yet, I caught myself thinking about you once a month, thoughts lazily tipping from side to side like a schoolyard see-saw. Were we friends? Or something more? Friends? More? I think I preferred to go out with you, watch movies, eat, talk at you, have you talk at me—than have sex with you.
Anyway, I was in this cafe, and it was really nice and warm, and I didn’t have a place to stay yet, and I was single. You were running late. This cafe called out to me, not too far from your office. I walked in, admiring the cozy earthtones and dark wood in the middle of the city. I had only seen this in high-end cocktail bars/gastropubs with overpriced burgers but not in strict scones-and-croissants, lattes-and-coldbrew coffee shops. It was surprising, to say the least, that there was even a gas fireplace with those ugly fake logs built into the wall blasting heat, and no one wanted to sit next to it even though it was below freezing outside. In fact, there was hardly anyone in the cafe.
I hung my coat on a chair and spread my bag on the entire table before going to the counter. I ordered a cafe latte with an extra shot as a precaution for a long afternoon and evening. In the plastic case next to the cash register, there was a chocolate croissant that looked good, and so I asked for that as well. The cashier asked if I was dining in, and I said that I was, and then she asked for my name. Just as I said it, the door opened, and a group of four finance-bro types burst in. Between the squeak of the door, the boom of the bros, and the city noise pouring in, I knew for a fact that the cashier did not catch my name, and yet I didn’t repeat myself. I was suddenly feeling very tired from the two trains I took to get here, and I just wanted to curl up near the fake logs and doze off, reading. The cashier smiled tightly and said she would bring the food and coffee right out. I thanked her and went back to my seat.
My boots left dirty streaks of city snowmelt on the floor, and I resisted the urge to put my feet up on the chair opposite me, soiling it for the next customer who sat there. I sure as hell didn’t want to get up and clean it up either, knowing that it would nag me until I did it. I hunched over a weathered copy of Dubliners I had chanced upon in the local library book sale and cracked it open. I was pleased to be reading it and even more pleased to be reading such a modern classic in public. Not that I wanted anyone to come up to me to ask, “Hey, what are you reading?” because then I would say, “Oh, it’s Dubliners by James Joyce, I’m in the middle of ‘A Painful Case,’ it’s sad and great.”
And, if she said, “I love that book. Have you read ‘The Dead’ yet?” or “That’s awesome, I’ve been meaning to read that,” I would fall in love with her, provided she was my type, and I would text you that I was held up and busy, and I would go out on the city in a whirlwind date, and at the end of the date, we would hold hands after huffing and puffing from ice-skating, and I would chance a kiss with her—
But if they said instead, “No, I haven’t heard of that author,” or, worse yet, “I haven’t read a book in ages!” I would tighten my lips and stare at them as they slunk away, never to bother me again. And this interaction would haunt me as an intrusive thought the entire weekend until I was back in the office and everything was wiped clean.
I had only read three words when my phone buzzed. Wrangling it out of my pocket, I swiped on the cracked screen and saw your text saying that you were running a bit late due to a last-minute meeting with the department head of publishing to get ahead of the holiday season.
no worries, I texted back, i’m reading Joyce at this cafe not too far from your office, i’m warm and safe, smiley face. I put my phone away and leaned back, stretching my arms. I thought about the time when we went to an art exhibit, and on the fifth floor they had converted the usually annoyingly minimalist gallery space into a trippy seventies-era lounge with tasteful carpet, bean bags, and a rumbling ambiance of storm and rain permeating the air. Swirls of thunderclouds and sparks of lightning were projected onto enormous ellipsoidal shapes hanging above us. All of the beanbags were taken, so you laid on your stomach, and I laid down at a right angle next to you and rested my head on your perfect ass.
For a moment, you didn’t say anything, but I felt your muscles stiffen. Gluteus maximus. I closed my eyes and waited for you to swat me away, but instead we just laid there, and I almost fell asleep in the projected storm, feeling your life force course through your body.
“Joe? Order for Joe?” The cashier finally called out. I blinked out of my reverie, suddenly a bit too warm, and shrugged off my sweater before walking up to the cashier.
“Hi,” I said.
She looked at me a bit strangely, holding fast a coffee in one hand and a Danish on a plate in the other. “You had the—”
“Oh, no, sorry,” I laughed. “Not me, I had the chocolate croissant and the latte.” A presence loomed behind me and I stepped out of the way. “You must be the other Joe, then, huh?”
It was an older, tough looking guy with close-cropped hair peeking out from under a grimy, camo-green beanie. He eyed me and said, “No, that’s not my name. It’s George.”
“Oh, okay,” I swore she called for Joe. “No worries, man.”
Back at the table, a deep melancholy set in after a few more paragraphs of ‘A Painful Case.’ The city suddenly felt unknowable, hostile even. This cafe was just one of thousands, and the anonymity that I took for granted before was too much to bear. Worse yet, you were suddenly unrecognizable to me. The schoolyard see-saw started up violently, and I barely hung on. Was this a genuine connection in a world starved of intimacy? Or a waste of fucking time?
The finance-bros laughed uproariously, and I flashed through anger and seething envy before I realized that I was just tired and needed my caffeine. That simple thought was like a ray of warm sunlight, or like a crackle of a real campfire. I was okay. I shook my head and continued to read.
“Order for Joe!” It was unmistakable this time. I got up and speedwalked to the cashier, who flashed me a smile. I smiled back and then realized she was showing polite, professional embarrassment. On the counter, there were four clear cups of cold brew in a particularly ugly compostable cup carrier, tufts of plant fiber protruding like mold off the raggedly cut edges, with plastic straws neatly stacked on the tops. Behind me, a loud voice announced that it was one of the finance bros who had come in right after me in his disheveled casual getup. I didn’t even bother commiserating with another Joe—there were too many of us crowding this Earth and this godforsaken city, and I wanted to plunge back into the dark, back into the shadowless world of anonymity.
But I had to beat on ceaselessly, like boats against the current or something like that. I walked over to the cashier as the finance bro left with his four cold brews for his buddies in the middle of winter, and I tried to be kind and sweet: “Hey, just wanted to know if my order was coming up? I had the chocolate croissant and the latte with an extra shot?”
She looked around at the espresso machine station and said, “Yes, certainly, it’s coming right up,” even though there wasn’t anyone there making anything at all.
“Thanks,” I said, slinking back to my seat. Even though my phone hadn’t buzzed, I pretended it had and was disappointed to not see any new notifications besides a spam email. There was a precipice yawning before me, and I stared deep into it. I was pining, I was yearning, I was in love but didn’t know it until now, right? No, I was bored, the sex was fine at best, annoying at worst, I didn’t like how her breath smelled after she took her clothes off but not before, our kissing always felt awkward, she lives in a city that I could not afford without roommates, and no, no, no! I could not live with roommates again.
The cracked dark mirror staring me down buzzed, and I saw the text before I could dive further inward and out of reach. You said, Sorry I’m so late! Meeting went over an hour, you’re still there?
yes just chilling, dont worry about it, and sent before I could embellish it. I thought about how I was going to reach for your hand and accept the consequences. I thought about telling you that I wanted tonight to be a date. I thought about just being chill, being funny, making you laugh, but also relentlessly flirty. I thought about tightly hugging you and burying my head into your neck. I thought about kissing you as soon as I saw you, and then guiding you through crowds and doors with my hand against the small of your back, like a proper gentleman.
“Order for Joe?” I wasn’t even hungry anymore, and the taste of espresso felt like too much, but I got up anyway. I took the almond croissant and americano without complaint and brought it to my table. I stared at the pair like a madman, trying to figure out where everything went wrong. Picking up the croissant, it felt stale and cold. When I bit into it, flakes went everywhere, settling on my pants, my scarf, my sweater, settling in the gutter of my tattered, beautiful copy of Dubliners, never to be dug out again, and finally, finally, finally you walked in. I stood up, saying hi, and you said hi, smiling, opening your arms. When I kissed you, you turned your cheek, and I missed, leaving a croissant flake on the corner of your lip. It was glued to you like a beauty mark for the rest of the night.
G.C. Collins is a writer living high in the mountains of the US. One day they will finally come down, move to the coast, and fulfill their destiny as a senior surfer/writer.