That Little Cafe Near the Harbor (from collection My Hometown Named Love)

The name of the cafe wasn't Heart by accident. Maybe it was meant to be from the beginning. It was the heart of the village, where parents could stop by with their children after school to get tea or ice cream. Where groups of mothers gather for a chat about what's happening in the village. Exchange information, laugh loudly, and try to make their way in and out with their bags and strollers. It was also a suitable place for young couples on their first dates, just to have a cup of coffee and see if there's anything to talk about. If the heart would open. 

The cafe had opened its doors way over half a century earlier. No one remembered exactly when. One local historian had dug up some old newspapers and found a story about the cafe owner from spring 1946, when the war was over. Tourists were coming back to the village, and the sailing ships were again starting to crowd the little harbor near the cafe. 

It really wasn't a cafe. They had always served great homemade food. Recipes had been passed on in the owner's family from older to younger generations. The old owner from that 1946 newspaper clip had died years ago as an old man. His daughter had run the place for a while before passing it on to her daughter. 

The daughter was now around forty. She was energetic and loud, moving swiftly from behind the counter to the tables with her fiery red hair. She commanded the workers in the cafe nicely but firmly, sometimes even commenting on what was happening in others' lives. She didn't do it to harm anyone, just to keep the customers happy, cheer up people going through rough times, raise the spirit of anyone in need of it. 

Therefore anyone who ever ended up popping by the Heart cafe always returned. They had their regular customers, including me, sometimes once a week, sometimes more often, sitting by myself on a lunch break or for breakfast, sometimes with friends. 

Often I was there just to observe people, see the old and new faces coming in, doing the same rituals, saying the same jokes. There had to be a connection between this village and this lovely spot with its unique people. 

There sat this red-haired bloke, maybe in his late 40s-you can't always tell what age the Irish are. He sat there every day after work. I vaguely remembered having seen him outdoors, maybe by his small trawler in the early mornings, bringing his just-caught fish from the harbor to the nearby restaurants. 

He often chatted with the owner while reading the day's paper. The lady had similar red hair and a wink in her eye. For a long time I thought they were a sister and a brother, or they were married. They looked the same. But one time I overheard a short conversation and realized they hardly knew each other even after all those years. It was just small talk. Had always been. 

I started observing the man looking after the lady discreetly when she turned away and headed towards the kitchen. Under his fisherman's cap, he was just a shy boy who couldn't tell her that he was in love. Probably had been all those years, maybe all their adulthood. Or when they had gone to school here together. I had a feeling they had been living in this village all their lives. 

How distant can you still be? 

I had had a small crush on this foreign girl working in the cafe. She had massive brown eyes, a joyful personality, and a matching sense of humor. Then suddenly she had moved away. I had only gotten to know her by first name after almost two years. People are shy. Or then they just don't want to jeopardize everything. Being turned down could be an embarrassment. It would probably mean not stepping in that same place ever again. 

But without the courage and gambling, it was impossible to win anything. That's what I had lost when I let the velvet-eyed girl go. Maybe she would've touched my finger again when passing the plates. I had thought it had been on purpose. As one of my female friends had once said, "You could've got that girl."