An Empty Cafe

I stare out the window. The bell above the cafe’s entrance hasn’t rung its happy tune all day, and it’s almost 3 PM. Of course, the moody sky and spitting rain don’t help business much, but I think somebody would still order a coffee or pastry to warm their spirits. 

I’ve redone my ponytail about one hundred times, and I’ve been cleaning the same portion of the countertop with a rag for the past five minutes without realizing it. 

“Rain, rain, go away, come again another day,” I mutter.

Put Your Head On My Shoulder is drifting out of the shop’s speakers for the third time today. I sing along out of routine. It would be a tragedy if I didn’t know the lyrics by heart at this point. 

Since I’m at work, I can’t suppress the guilt of being paid to do nothing. The display of confectionaries seems like a good place to begin busying myself. I take my time putting on plastic gloves, a process and chore I’ve complained about for over a year, but the day is so stagnant it’s a welcome activity. Anything to pass the next two hours a little faster.

I rearrange the pignolis, the intense aroma of almond extract greeting me. I breathe it in and taste the scent like a ghost on my tongue. I pause and look around the room, as if there would be anyone. I grab one from the back of the tray and pop it in my mouth.

All or nothing, baby.

So soft, so chewy. Perks of an empty cafe. I dump out the drip coffee, steam rising as the amber liquid cascades into the sink. So maybe I don’t need to make more, but the pitter patter of coffee filling up the carafe and the strong scent of wonderful bean juice are simple pleasures of mine. Not having a piping hot mug of caffeine on a day like this is basically illegal. I begin the ritual of brewing some more. Water, grounds, filter, coffee maker do your magic. That magic meant waiting though. I lean against the counter, thinking of what I can do until it’s ready. I go into the supplies closet and choose a wooden broom, (I prefer plastic handled ones because of splinters, but there are none of that type in sight), and begin sweeping the main floor of the cafe. Dust scrambles up into the air. The back and forth motion soothes me like a mother rocking her child. I let my mind wander. My hips begin to sway, but only a little as if it were a crime to groove. Bennie and The Jets is playing its orchestrated chaos through the speakers. I have a promise I’ve made to Elton John that I will always sing that song. Humming at first, then whispering the words, and now belting it out. It just feels right. I’m no longer in a cafe I get paid minimum wage at, I’m on a dance floor in a universe where this moment plays on repeat forever and ever. The broom transforms from something to sweep with to a microphone and a dance partner all in one.

“Bennie! Bennie! Bennie and the Jets!” I scream.

I’m twirling so fast the world is a record player and my apron even joins in the fun and puffs out like a parachute. The song is fading out and I drop the broom and put my hands on my knees and pant. 

Clap, clap, clap.

The sound of applause. I always thought the clapping was at the beginning of the song. I look up and the world is melting around my dizzy self, but I straighten up. A young man stands in front of the register, propped up on his elbows as he applauds.

“I, uh, hi. This is, this is- Hi, how may I help you?” I blab.

Great way to slaughter the English language, I think.

I rush to my spot behind the counter, slicking back my hair and redoing my ponytail for the one hundred and oneth time. My cheeks are burning. Back to my cashier position, I settle my brain enough to try and form complete thoughts and regain enough of my composure to redeem myself. 

The man in front of me is wearing a black Belstaff coat, the type Benedict Cumberbatch rocks on Sherlock Holmes, but he shrugs it off and lays it across his forearm. He stands in front of me with a look of polite interest. 

“I did not expect,” the man begins, combing back stray, honey-colored hair from his forehead, “to be attending a wonderful concert. I wish you’d teach me some of those moves you got.” He wiggles his body to demonstrate. 

“It’ll cost ya,” I say, laughing louder than necessary. My nerves have broken through the atmosphere, but with deep breaths they’re settling back down to Earth. 

“Worth it,” he says.

I shake my head.

“Pfft, debatable. But hey, listen, I’m really sorry once again. I didn’t even hear the bell ring. I guess I was… busy.”

The man ignores my apologies and peruses the selection of confectionaries instead. He points, making sure to keep his fingerprints off the glass like a good citizen, a lesson I wish was taught in schools, to the pignolis.

“What’s that inside the cookie?” He asks, looking up at me.

“Pine nuts. Sounds weird, I know, but,” I imitate a chef’s kiss, “perfection. And the smell is to die for. If you think vanilla extract smells good, wait till you experience almond extract. I’ve always found it similar to the scent of maraschino cherries.”

“Consider me sold. I’ll take one of those. Or two. Ok, fine, three. No, one.”

“And you’re sure about that?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

“I am, I am. And, I’ll take a mocha. Does the barista approve?” 

“I think a mocha is a very good choice. Not quite sure it compliments the cookie, but I approve of both nonetheless.” 

With tongs, I pluck up a pignoli and drop it into a paper sleeve.

“Here you go, sir,” I say, handing him the bag.

He takes it with a flourish. 

“I’ll make your mocha now, it’ll only take a second. Caffeinated?” 

“That’s the only answer, my dear.”

The coffee bar is behind the counter and holds the espresso machine. I always have to keep my back turned to customers while I make their drinks which my awkward self doesn’t mind. I rummage through the jar of espresso pods. 

“To-go?” I ask without turning.

“Hmmm. Here sounds good. If I’m lucky there will be another concert soon,” I hear him say.

The mugs are still warm from the dishwasher and I choose the largest size. On the window sill sits an array of flavorings and I reach for the chocolate syrup on my tiptoes. 

“Do you want to hear a story?” I hear him ask. 

I squeeze the nearly empty bottle with all my might and pour a generous pool into the mug and begin brewing the espresso into it. 

“A story? Never turn down a story,” I say. 

“Wise, wise woman you are. Well, it’s a story my mother told me,” he says.

I nod while I wait for him to continue. Even after a year working here I have to remind myself of the characteristics of each drink. A mocha is just a chocolate latte, so it’s espresso and milk for the most part, and a little foam because who wouldn’t want that. I enjoy the symmetry of cappuccinos though: one third espresso, one third milk, and one third foam. 

“When I was young, I was always hounding my mother about when she’d trust me enough to ride my bike around the block alone, or stay home while my parents went on dates.”

“Tell me about it,” I say as I choose the whole milk from the fridge. I pour it into a silver frothing pitcher. 

“One day,” he continues, “my mother sat me down on the stairs. It was dark out, late at night. It was after I told her my heart felt like it was going to explode because becoming a cool teenager like the kids who went to the highschool next to our house felt so, so far away. She laughed at me first, shaking her head. To me the world felt so simple. All I needed was to be older, and life would be perfect. Somehow I felt suffocated by youth.” He sighs.

I can picture him shaking his head at his young self’s logic as I begin steaming the milk. The milk gurgles and sputters as the liquid turns into a bubble bath and the scent of warm dairy floats up.

“Sorry it’s a little loud!” I holler. 

He continues on a little louder. “She told me everyone knows the classic line from Forrest Gump, ‘life is like a box of chocolates,’ but life is like something else too. A puzzle.”

I’m listening to him, but most of my thoughts are dominated by milk. If I scald it and serve him a poorly made mocha, I’m going to freak. I check the temperature of the stainless steel container with my hand. Hot, but not burning. It’s perfect. Relief floods my body and my hands stop their shaking. All I have to do now is pour in the cream and pray my limited latte art skills don’t fail me.

“I thought it was odd at the time. But she explained everyone’s life is a puzzle. We don’t know how many pieces we have, we don’t know if it’s a quarter way finished or one piece away from completion, so we must enjoy every second, every piece of the puzzle, because someday there will be no more pieces. All that’s left will be an image of the life you led, and it won’t matter if it’s a 500 or 3000 piece puzzle because the picture is complete.”

I nod my head in hopes he knows I’m acknowledging him. I’m investing all my focus into making a foam heart. I need to breathe, but taking a breath sounds catastrophic. There’s no more room left in the mug and I look at my work. It’s a bit lopsided, but the heart shape is identifiable, and that’s all I can ask for. 

“A puzzle, huh,” I say. “I’ll have to keep that in mind. Also, I never caught your name.”

 I place the mug on a saucer and turn around to hand it to him.

“I’ll tell you mine first. My name is-” I begin. The man is gone. I set the mocha on the counter and walk out from behind the counter.

“Hello?” I call out. No response. I knock on the bathroom, but it’s empty. A scan of the cafe reveals nothing. The place is too tiny for anyone to be hiding anyways. If all that’s true, then why didn’t I hear the bell ring above the door?

I rub my eyes. Did I just hallucinate? But no, there’s a bite taken out of the pignoli on the counter, the mocha steaming right next to it.

Outside, the rain continues. I take the unclaimed drink and sip it as I stare out the window.

It would appear life is a puzzle in more ways than one.