The sepia reflections of five or so office workers streak across the dark storefront window. One streak solidifies into a woman as the rest move on. Her fingers comb strands of frail black hair out of her eyes as she squints into the window. There is just enough light outside still that the glass is opaque and she can only see her vague silhouette between heavy green curtains. Her blue dress flutters against her calves as a boy on a skateboard skids past. She glances down at the gold-embossed sign, 'Kilogram café,' and thinks, good enough. She just needs a place to sit and wait.
She opens the door as someone pushes a heavy garment rack over the pavement behind her. The noisy clanking diminishes as soon as the door closes, the worker and his cargo off to some anonymous fabric-strewn factory in the garment district.
She does a double take once she is inside. Green and brown dot her view and she wonders if she stepped inside a Starbucks by accident. But there are no rickety tables, plastic green straws, or espresso machines screeching over loud conversation. She likes how small and quiet the café is instead, how the barista's bar extends across the middle of the room like an arm shielding the tables behind it, how the green of the tables and seats is a deep unabashed emerald, glowing under the yellow lights. Beveled glasses and green teacups glisten on the shelves.
She lowers her backpack, holding the top handle with two hands. She presses her lips into a line as she considers the dark purple night ahead of her, imagines sitting across from her daughter in one hour, who will have taken the train here three hours just to see her. Her daughter will complain that she needs to stop drinking coffee, especially so late, because of some paranoid ideas she has about caffeine. But she needs this. Her head pulses. She feels the lines in her face deepen, her hair grow frizzier. It's fine if the night ends with her sleepless again. She wants to enjoy dinner with her daughter.
After getting her coffee from one of the two workers behind the bar, she takes a spot on the green bench in the back of the room. She lifts the gold handle of the cup and puts it to her cheek until her skin blushes under the heat. It smells pleasantly chocolatey and bitter. There are half circles under her eyes. The truth is that she hadn't slept last night again. She lays back against the bench. It is quiet, the air unbroken by the jazz playing from the speakers. There are two other customers, one sitting by the counter in front of the window reading a book, the other one two tables away from her, typing steadfastly into their computer.
She texts her daughter where she is and puts her phone down. She worries about how soft her daughter is, more strait-laced and afraid than she had ever been. She wishes that her daughter had stayed in the city, not just to be near her, but also so that she could remain close to the world instead of hidden in a house in a silent sunny neighborhood. She knows that she had accidentally helped mold her daughter this way. When her daughter was born, she was so stunned by the life in her hands and loved her fragility so dearly that she worried, uncharacteristically, for her until she saw her anxious face reflected in her daughter's. By then, it was too late. As she stares at the black lines slicing through the green and gold marble pattern of the table in front of her, she tells herself that she doesn't know her daughter and never will. Her daughter might not be as soft as she sees her to be. Her heart hurts anyway. It's aggravating. She thinks she's too old for her heart to break over her daughter, but it's only on the rare days of the year when she sees her that these thoughts roil inside of her. She decides to watch a video for the next hour and rests her temple on her palm. Her eyes close.
In her dream, she is ladling soup out of a large bowl at the center of a green table and pushes it over to her daughter. Her daughter's face is a blur. She squints. Then her daughter is on her lap. She is a small child. Her hair is in a fluffy braid that smells strongly of oriental medicine. The scent is so incongruous that she wakes up. As she opens her eyes, she realizes it is the scent of the shampoo that she grew up with. Her daughter had never used it.
She becomes aware of where she is. She is nestled like a regular in a soft crevice of the café she has never visited before. She lets her frizzy hair fall over her face. Her lips are slightly open, the lines around her mouth less prominent. She checks the time on her phone. After finishing the last sips of coffee in her cup, cool enough now to bite the tip of her tongue with unpleasant bitterness, she stands and leaves. She appears ready for whatever the night holds. read more