Carolina and The Fan Non-fiction | H.S

Thirteen

November 18, 2016

At sunset

Sillons Café, Bloomsbury

As the familiar black curtain walls become closer, I feel my stomach turn. Entering Sillons used to be the most casual, meditating feeling. Now, its mere sight stimulates memories in my head. It's been a week. It's been exactly a week.

Inside, it's still the same old. A few customers, caffeine and sweet smell in the air, and the table I always sit on. Actually, I stand corrected, it looks like the same old. In introspect, nothing is the same. Now, it will always be the place I met him in. My one-night friend.

I shake the thought off my head as I make my order, "Small cappuccino please. Classic."

"To go or dine in?"

"To go please."

I watch as the till girl get a pen and cup, "Vivien, right?"

I feel my lips part slightly in shock but eventually relax as I recognize her as one of the staff I frequently saw here and I guess vice versa.

"Yes," I chuckled, "thanks."

I take a sit just near the checkout so I could quickly know if my drink is ready. From here I can see where I always sat. It's scary to glance at my usual table and immediately visualize him in front of me. I didn't know that it was possible to remember so much of a person having seen them only once.

"I kind of wanted this last day to myself. In comfortable solitude," I remember him saying.

I also remember agreeing. Except I don't find myself wholly agreeing this time. Solitude, sure. Comfortable, not as much anymore. Not with images of him flashing in my head like an old film rolling.

I'd be inhuman to deny that the thought of last week's Friday haven't bugged me at all. Because it has. It does almost every time I'm left with no other thought to think about. It got to a point where I'm not even sure what I feel about it anymore. It's surreal one second, then fond, then sad, and sometimes even mad. The only way I can ever make sense of it all is whenever I wrote my romantic flash fiction because I have to recall the details, the conversations, and the feelings. Writing about those sort of gave finality to that evening.

"Small classic cappuccino for Vivien," the girl calls out.

I go to take my order.

"Would you like a sticker?" she asked and I nod.

She hands me the little sticker of a frappe, not heeding my silence, "Alright good afternoon and thanks for coming," she said.

I smile as it's all I can give after my heavy ponderings on how my perception of Sillon has changed. I place the eighth addition to my sticker collection in my wallet. Then I left. This is the first Friday afternoon I'm not spending in this café.

Sipping through my coffee, I let the sunset take my messy mind. But even so, my thoughts drift back to the image of sitting in that table in Sillons and seeing the orange sky slowly become dark and blue. The image of me being unaware I would meet someone later.

I try to take myself out of replaying that scene again, focusing instead on what I could wear tonight. But when I consider wearing my sage green corduroy jacket to The Montague, I suddenly saw myself wearing the jacket with him in his own shearling suede brown jacket.

I don't regret spending that night with Harry, but every time it bothers me, I feel like I almost will. I knew what I was getting into, deciding to run with him in that adventure. I was sure I was ready to accept that it stops there. Heck, I ended my romantic flash fiction with the acceptance that sometimes you meet a person at the right angle, but unfortunately, this meant your paths are perpendicular lines, and therefore that one time is the only time you'll have. Ours was that night.