The Café

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, or so he
thought as she walked into the café that hot August morning. He was
sipping his third cup of coffee – he had to pay for each one, so much
for the "bottomless" cup – and dividing his attention between
Hemmingway's Ten Indians, a favorite short story of his, and the
Mississippi River, flowing just beyond the Arch. He spent most
mornings there, reading or writing or staring at the river or some
combination of the three. His imagination was particularly active
that week, but he couldn't seem to take the many ideas passing
through his mind and turn them into an interesting story on paper.
He had so many ideas – some of which, he was sure, would make some
writer a very good plot. He just didn't seem to be the writer they
were for at the time. Like to the beautiful red head that had just
entered the café, he would give his full attention to an idea, sure
that it was his best ever, only to have it fizzle and pass from his
mind.

She sat at a table about halfway across the room from his
own. There was an old man sitting by the window unit that cooled the
room – he noticed that the old man paid for each cup of coffee as the
waitress brought it and that he had done so with nickels and
pennies. The cook, Bobby they called him, would stand around talking
with Cindy, the waitress, between orders, and there was far more
standing around time than cooking. It was usually just the three of
them in there all morning, and he never ordered food. When things
were going well, he could get a great deal of work done because the
cook and the waitress knew to leave him alone. He wasn't unsociable;
he just needed to be left alone so that he could work.

He found himself staring at the young lady. He didn't want
to be rude, and he didn't want to appear to be some sort of pervert,
but he couldn't seem to take his eyes off her. He noticed Cindy
walking over to her table. She had been reading the menu and he
could see the redhead saying something. The air conditioner was
running – it was old and loud – so he couldn't hear what she said,
but he figured that she was ordering breakfast. The more he sat
there looking at her, the more attractive he found her. He found
himself totally captivated with her. He felt a little guilty about
staring at her when her eyes met his – he wasn't sure why, as his
thoughts were in no way indecent. He just found her attractive.
Nonetheless, when her eyes met his he quickly reverted his gaze from
her to the volume in his hands. He tried to make like he was reading
and had only casually glanced up, but really he didn't even know if
he had left off reading on the left page or the right. He wondered
if she knew that he had been staring. He wondered if she would
mind. Would she think him a threat? He wasn't. Would she be afraid
of him? She shouldn't, for he was basically a good person and would
never hurt anyone. Of course, she couldn't know that. Anyway, he
had his book to read, the river to watch, and hopefully his stories
to write.

He read a line or two, presumably from where he had left off
before she came in. Cindy brought the redhead a plate of eggs and
one piece of toast with some coffee and juice. He looked at her
again. He still couldn't hear her, but he thought that she must have
a lovely voice. He liked the way her lips moved when she spoke, and
he was most impressed by the glow that seemed to come from her face
when she smiled. He glanced out the window and then back to his
book. He had just as well put her from his mind and get back to
business. He needed to be working. The work would come – when it
was ready to come – but he knew that always before it came sooner
when he held to his routine.

He was naturally shy and had not even looked beyond her
face. He found himself wanting to look some more. He saw that her
short red hair was tied in the back with a ribbon into a ponytail –
there seemed barely enough hair to tie. What wasn't bound by the
ribbon fit beautifully around her lightly freckled face. She wore a
pair of blue jeans and a red shirt. She wasn't tall, but he wouldn't
say she was short either. She wore tennis shoes and white socks.
When the waitress had brought her food, she folded the newspaper she
had been reading and placed it neatly in her lap. On it she
delicately positioned her napkin, with which she would, in the finest
lady-like fashion, frequently tap her lips between bites or sips. He
was impressed. Deeply impressed.

Cindy topped his coffee off and said something to him, but he
didn't hear what it was. She tapped his arm. He mumbled something
in reply. When the waitress asked him what he had said, he smiled,
knowing that even he didn't know what he had said or what she had
asked him.

"What are you staring at?"

It was a simple enough question, but she asked it with her
hands on her hips and a smirk on her face.

"What do you mean?" he innocently asked.

"I mean what I said – what are you staring at?"

"Nothing."

"It sure takes you a long time to look at nothing."

Grabbing his neck with his right hand, he said, "I must have
slept wrong last night, I have a terrible catch in my neck and it
helps to change the position of my head along…"

He didn't take teasing well, but she dished it out like few
others could. He knew he was being teased, and he knew how silly his
answer and the feigned crick in his neck must have appeared to her,
and that she would not leave him alone until she had had her fun.

"Do you want to know her name?"

Of course, he did; but his shyness wouldn't let him say so.

"Who do you mean?"

The words no sooner passed his lips than he knew how foolish
they must have seemed to Cindy. He knew Cindy's name and the redhead
was the only other woman in the place.

"You know who I mean – the `nothing' you been staring at."

"Oh, her. Sure, I guess."

He did a good job of disguising his eagerness, or at least he
thought he had.

"Her name is Mary, Mary Johnson."

"Is she…"

He almost asked if she was married or otherwise attached, but
his shyness took over and he changed his mind – backed out might be a
better way of putting it.

"…Is she from around here?"

"She lives on Gravois. Just moved up here from Crockett last
week. Crockett is a little town in Arkansas."

He knew Crockett, and he knew that she was only half right in
describing it – it was little, but it wasn't a "town" – not anymore
anyway. He came from a small town not far from there himself. His
interest was already piqued, this only made it better.

"Small world, I guess."

"Don't you want to know anything else about her?"

"I suppose. What does she do for a living?"

"Is that really what you want to know?"

"What do you think I want to know?"

"Oh, I don't know."

She knew what he wanted to know. She knew people well. In
fact, she fancied herself clairvoyant – she wasn't really, but she
thought she was. Despite the fact that she was not clairvoyant, she
was right about him and his interest in the redhead.

He decided to ask what he really wanted to know, but he would
do so in a way that gave the appearance of disinterest – as though he
was only asking for Cindy's benefit.

"OK, is she married?"

"Why do you ask?" she said, with that smirk on her face again.

"I have reading here, if you want to play games…"

She cut him off:

"No. She is not married."

He was glad to hear that.

"Is she…"

He couldn't finish. He wanted to know, but he couldn't bring
himself to ask.

"Do you mean to ask if she is seeing anyone?"

"Maybe I do."

"Well," she said, in a voice that reminded him of children on
the playground teasing a playmate about a member of the opposite
sex, "if you decide you want to know, call me. I'll be at the
counter."

She turned to walk to the counter when he spoke, "Yes, I want
to know."

"Know what?"

"You know… is she…"

"Is she what?"

"Is she seeing anyone?"

"Seeing anyone? Why, I think she's reading the paper…"

With full frustration in his voice he replied, "Just forget
it."

"No, no, I'm sorry. She's free – not seeing a soul and never
been married. Want me to put a word in for you with her?"

"No – I don't think so." He had said this in a way that
easily demonstrated his desire to know her better. That wouldn't
do. "I mean, no thank you. I must bet back to my writing."

Of course, he had no notebook before him. He had not been
writing, he had been reading. He wrinkled his brow and sought a way
of escape. His face got that "scholarly" look on it – you know the
kind, when someone wants to give the appearance of non-concern about
what had been happening and that they had more pressing business
before them. He didn't really have any business that meant anything
to him at all at that moment, but he wanted Cindy to think that he
had. She went back to the counter where she and Bobby whispered and
giggled.

He tried to read, but found it impossible to make sense out
of the words. That was odd, because he had read the story hundreds
of times before, but it meant nothing this time. He wanted to speak
to the redhead, but he just couldn't. He didn't have it in him. No –
he should put her from his mind and try to write. On second
thought… Maybe he would try to write. No, he knew there were no
stories in him that morning. He would just look out the window.
Yes, that would be fine. The river was nice and there might even be
an interesting barge or two passing. He liked looking at the river.
That's what he would do – just look out the window.

Of course, he found himself wanting to look at her. Then he
realized that all the while he had been thinking of what to do he had
been looking at her! He thought about what to say to her. `Some
weather we've been having…' No, that would never do. `So, you're
from Crockett…' Again, no. `You're beautiful…' He could never… He
just wasn't good with women.

Cindy came by and whispered, "She aint gonna be here forever,
you know."

She was right. It was now or never, he thought. He decided
to speak to her. He couldn't remember the last time he has spoken to
anyone on purpose, let alone a female, and more still, an attractive
female with whom he would like to get along most pleasantly. He had
no idea what to say, or even how to approach her. Did he look all
right? Was his hair combed? He stood up, pushed the chair in, and
went to the restroom to `freshen up' a bit before the big moment.

He wet his face and patted it dry with the coarse, almost
cardboard-like towels provided by the management. His hair wasn't
bad, but he combed it anyway. He gave his mouth a squirt from the
small canister of breath spray he always carried in his pocket. He
still didn't know what he'd say, but he just had to go out there and
say something. It's now or never.

He felt silly standing there in front of the cracked mirror
primping. After all, she was just a woman – lovely, beautiful even,
but just a woman. So what if she rejected him? There would be
others. Of course, he hated the thought of being rejected in front
of Cindy and Bobby, but there were other cafés also. He would always
have his stories and those of others with which to busy himself.
Besides, what if she liked him as much as he liked her? He had to do
it. It was time.

He turned toward the door and, almost as if in a dream, he
saw himself as if from a distance gliding along… He reached for the
knob with his left hand, turned it slowly, and pulled. There was
Cindy and Bobby at the counter, the old man counting out his pennies,
and that was all. She was gone.

H. L. Gradowith
06-22-2002