Me, Myself, and I

one year later

Coffee and books have a similar comfort to them I've never really contemplated before. A crispness, an ability to carry you to another time and place, engage your senses. If there was ever a metaphor worth remembering, I think I found it.

"Julia, it's the landlord."

I turned from a customer. "Could you take care of it for me? Let him know it's in the mail and on the way over."

"No way! You do it. That man's voice is enough to cause a bullet wound."

I rolled my eyes and grabbed the phone from my waitor, Stuart, and watched him frantically mix and match two flavors for one of our regulars. The landlord was, in fact, thanking us for all of the on time payments, and for the success. I put the phone back on the receiver, returning my attention the stubborn stain on one of our counter tops. No bleach was strong enough for it.

"Good morning, Julia!"

I turned around. Another regular, Jake with the usual unkempt beard, baggy clothes, and long stories. I plopped three sugars and two creamers into a grande. He started telling me about his dog breeding business on the side, and then another customer story, some lady who kept trying to hide merchandise in the bathrooms. He had a million ideas. Said my tree logo could use some sprucing up. That I should invest in less tinted windows. I knew better than to blow them off. He did his research.

"By the way, someone else finally suggested blackmail to solve the water problem," Jake laughed clinking his mug. "Anyway, see you at the Tuesday meeting, yeah?"

I nodded and waved him off, eying the rest of the place. The morning rush was the best time of the day, when coffee was at its strongest. The welcome bell chimed in another group who dispersed throughout. One walked up, shook hands with Stuart.

He wore college T-shirt over his jeans, pulled at the roots of his hair every few seconds. Stuart spoke quickly to him, offering him item after item, all which he turned down. He circled the place once or twice, listening to Stuart all the while.

"You all right?"

I blinked. Another regular had been telling me a tragic story about her dead gold fish. "Sorry, Stan. Could you excuse me a moment?"

He lifted his mug to toast me. I poked my head into the kitchen, writing "Stan's usual" on a slip of paper. I straightened my blouse, caught a glimpse of myself from a toaster. My glasses were fogging up. I swiped them on my apron and kept myself from skipping towards Stuart like a frantic child in kindergarten.

"...She works me like a horse. No, more like a dog. And that guy over there? Three, no four cups a day. I keep telling her we need to start charging more or he's gonna run us out of business and I'll have to go beg on the streets and—"

"We get it Stuart," I said, handing him a pot. "The tyrant would appreciate if you could check on refills."

He made a face. "What did I tell ya? Okay, see you around, Ben."

Stuart nearly crashed on his way out. I told him he could be the exception when it came to wearing the roller blades, but he had come up with about a million reasons why shoes were even more dangerous.

Ben laughed in a short burst. "He hasn't changed."

"Heaven forbid." He'd cut his hair short again. He wore an NYU shirt, I realized, imagining a clay letter in each hand. N. Y. U. I shook my head. What was I doing? I came around the counter and hugged him. Then slapped him on the arm. "You never answered my last letter!"

He scratched his head. "Sorry. I wanted it to be a tape, again. And they are so expensive."

I had the stack he'd sent me throughout the school year piled in an old box, yes, the old box, in my room. We weren't big on calling, not that we hadn't. After my phone broke again and I could no longer afford my cell plan after my big loan, we were stuck using either the company phone or my dad's, neither of which proved to be ideal.