Night shifts black

Day Three.

 

 

It’s another three days before I finally go back. I wanted to go the next day, and the next, but I used all the strength I had to let my will overcome my compassion. I wasn’t ready to face that chair, whatever it is. Whatever he is. This fledging relationship built on a mutual understanding that there isn’t one. It felt like I’d be breaking one of our rules if I went back too early. Like I’d be pushing for a place in his life when he clearly doesn’t want me in it. If I waited, though, just a couple days, even, then we could blame it on chance. It wouldn’t be fair for him to claim my favorite café and force me out permanently. He’d understand that and have to respect the fact that I’d reappear eventually.

So here I am. Day three.

I take the table beside the one with his chair again. The same one where we almost shared breakfast last time. When I see him enter, my pulse quickens. I don’t know if it’s attraction. Probably. How could it not be? But it’s also something else. Fear maybe, that he won’t accept my presence. That he’s spent the last few days in this spot without me, relieved I’ve disappeared and left him in peace.

My fear dissolves into a rush of something else when he nearly smiles and heads straight for our table.

“You’re back,” he says, removing his jacket and placing it on the back of the chair. His vintage t-shirt is thin today, and I notice the hint of tattoos peaking through the light-colored sleeves. He’s also muscular, more than I would have thought. Not obsessively so, like he spends every waking hour working on his body, but naturally, like he lives a life where it’s inevitable. I can’t help but wonder what fills his hours when he’s not in Jemma’s Café staring at that chair.

“The tea here is second to none.”

He smirks and drops across from me. “If this is going to be a regular thing, you’ll have to do more than drink tea. It’s a little too obvious.”

My heart soars. I don’t even know why, unless it’s because it’s the first time he’s acknowledged that I’ve made an impact.

“I almost had pancakes last time.”

“Almost. Just so you know, I didn’t stay for the toast either. I’m surprised they let us back in.”

I smile. “We paid for our wasted food. Did we leave a decent tip?”

“Since you emptied your wallet on the table, I think we covered it.”

“How do you know I emptied my wallet?” I ask.

“I watched you do it. You almost threw in a couple receipts, too, until you stuffed those back in.”

“Yeah, but…” I don’t finish. He’s observant, like me. I wonder how many other things he’s noticed about me. That I’m left-handed? That my hair is darker than what seems natural for my skin tone? That my eyes are too big for my face, but really all my features are, so maybe they work together anyway. I realize there are a lot of things people could observe about me, and consider how one-sided my approach has been to forming my world.

“I was in a hurry,” I explain.

“Right, because you were late for work.”

“I was.”

“Yeah?”

I swallow. “Yeah.” I look at my phone and wince. If I had been late that day, then I’m really ru

He grins and nods. “Ok.”

I return his smile and clear my throat. “Fine. You caught me. I actually make my own hours.”

“I see. Then technically you could have been late, if you’d decided you were.”

I like his observation, for many reasons.

“Technically.”

“Well, that’s helpful then. Now I don’t have to be offended that you ditched me.”

“Ditched you? Please. I was doing you a favor by leaving, wasn’t I?”

His smile fades, but this time he doesn’t totally retreat to that dark place that makes me regret approaching his wall. This particular withdrawal is more introspective.

“Maybe.”

“So what are your hours, then?”

“I guess I make my own hours as well.”

“Self-employed?”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” I say.

He nods. He didn’t answer my question. He doesn’t intend to answer my question. I wonder if it’s the question itself, or a deeper flaw. I doubt he will answer any of my questions, so I decide not to ask any more for now.

“I’m a writer,” I continue, accepting that if we’re going to talk, it will have to be about me.

That seems to interest him, and I know I will have to make this topic seem a lot more glamorous than it is. I don’t usually worry about other people’s opinions, but now I want to impress him for some reason.

“A writer, really? What do you write?”

“Everything I can. A lot of it is to pay the bills, but some is to keep me sane.”

“I’m more interested in the part that keeps you sane.”

I expected as much and lean forward. I’m disappointed when the server prevents my response.

We place our orders, and the server eyes us with subtle suspicion. I don’t blame him, given the fact that we walked out on him the last time we were here together. I wonder again if Luke sat here alone the last two days without me. I wonder if he ordered anything. I wonder if he wondered where I was. I doubt it, and the thought makes me sad.

“Poetry mostly.”

“Poetry?”

“The part that keeps me sane.”

“I see. Interesting.”

“What about you?” I kick myself. No questions. I wait for him to shut down, but this time he doesn’t.

“No poetry. Not exactly, anyway.”

“Novels?”

He smirks. “No. Maybe one day.”

“Can you give me a hint? My next guess will be travel brochures.”

He smiles. “Song lyrics.”

Suddenly, it hits me. I don’t know how I missed this. “You’re a musician,” I guess.

He seems disturbed. “Used to be, but yeah.”

All of the sudden I want to look at the chair, but this time I’m able to stop myself. There’s no way I’m messing this up.

“Used to be?”

“Used to be.”

“Is music something that ever really goes away?”

He visibly shrinks.

Stupid! I’m furious with myself.

“Yes. I wouldn’t have thought so, but yes, it can.”

We’re silent, both letting that thought settle around us, deep into the cracks of our tenuous alliance. Me wondering what it would take to break a musician of his music. Him wondering…I have no idea.

At least I understand his hair now. And his clothes. And the fact that he doesn’t really fit in here. He never wore suits like I’d originally thought, but he also doesn’t wear jeans like the rest of us. I know my head shouldn’t go where it does, but the thought blasts through before I can stop it. I wonder if he’s a musician I would know. “Musician” could mean anything, but there’s something about him that makes me think he’s in a tier I’d recognize. I think back to that strange glimmer of recognition when I first saw him.

But I don’t ask, for once managing to hold my destructive question inside.

The silence continues, although it’s not awkward this time. I like that we don’t have to talk. I like that simply watching his eyes work the room is enough to replace any need for conversation. I find it fascinating that he’s ok with my presence, but doesn’t really need me here. Part of me thinks I could be anyone, and he’d be sitting in the same position, tattooed arm resting on the table, fingers absently exploring the napkin. Fingers that used to explore a piano, or guitar, or flute. I want to know which one and think maybe that’s a safe question.

“What instrument did you play?” I ask, breaking the silence.

It was safe enough, and he comes back to me.