Saying My Name

A Story by Drew

A young man finally ventures into the cafe side of his coffee shop.

Saying My Name

In my world, you don’t exist. I stare through you like bad curtains into the sunshine behind you. Your short blond locks don’t reflect the light, and your slate blue eyes don’t stare a hole through the better-looking gentleman to my left. You don’t radiate a shy confidence or give off a vibe that makes my knees buckle. The normal things you do, like writing with a pencil or drinking coffee, are not mesmerizing or profound. You are just a cloud floating through the room, having no effect on my being. You are a non-entity, and therefore a non-issue. That’s what I tell myself.

Walking into work only has two purposes. I make money, but it doesn’t mean much to me. I see people but they don’t phase me. I drink coffee, but I am still cold. Those two purposes are you and books. I read books. Not magazines or comics. Just books. Thick ones and thin ones and ones that have a tanned leather binding with a page holder sewn in. that’s basically my job. I write reviews for the local paper and I work the register at the bookstore. It’s a small bookstore on Ocean Avenue in downtown Madison. Back to that other purpose. You come to the bookstore. Excuse my vagueness, you come to the café everyday. I hear the bell ring somewhere between 9:15 and 9:18 every morning. I hear the soft rubber squeaking of your boots and the occasional shake of an umbrella. I am so nervous to be within one hundred feet of you that I usually go upstairs and sort the new arrivals while you sit and drink your coffee. Only a few times have I ever braved going into the café when you are there. Usually there is some better looking doctor or oral surgeon there who drives a seven series BMW and works in the business complex down the block. But one time you flashed a smile in my vicinity. I almost fainted.

You don’t know I work at the bookstore. You do know who I am though. We went to high school together. We shared hockey puck hamburgers and homeroom with Mrs. Connell and one time I shared my US History notes with you the day before the final. Now you must work in town, since you come to the store every morning. It’s been eight years since we graduated high school, and five days a week I wonder what you do.

You obviously don’t know I’m writing this since this story is about the first time we have spoken to each other in those past eight years. You do not know I’m writing this since it will never be published. And you won’t ever know I wrote this, because when you come over and drink cheap wine and lay your head on my pillow, it will be tucked between the floorboards under my dresser.

On the morning of January 19^th at 8:39 am, you walked into the café. You were an hour early. I only knew it was you because I was in cleaning the cupcake case in the café when I heard the door open, boots squeak and an umbrella shake. I assumed it could just be a co-worker but when I looked up you stood there with mascara running down your left cheek and a bewildered look on your face. I managed, somehow someway, to sputter out a few of those things we call “words”.

h-h-hi. What can I get for you?

Just a large coffee please.

So that is what you order. I almost said �"you’re early” but then I realized that might seem a tad creepy

One second, I’ll have to put a fresh pot on, our barista doesn’t come in until nine.

That’s fine, I can sit and wait.

I put on a fresh pot of coffee and hurriedly scampered out of the café to seek comfort in my stacks of books and oak tables in the store. You talked. To me. Actually I should be more impressed that I was able to answer.

A few minutes later I returned just in time to hear a sigh that carried with it stress, a thirst for caffeine and frustration all in one. I ignored it because I knew that whatever I said would in all likelihood make it worse. Instead I hopped over the counter and tended to your coffee. It was very dark and rose the hairs on my arms as I poured it. I would drink the whole pot with you if you’d have me. I brought her it in an enormous porcelain mug and managed to squeak out

Cream or sugar?

No thank you, I need it as is.

I watched there as you drank about a third of the mug in one go, the bitterness and strength apparently not affecting you in any way. I realized I was staring a bit and shuffled my feet in the direction of the bookstore.

So you work here? �" she called at my back, giving me chills and warming my chest all at once.

Yes I do, I manage the store and do the register.

That’s cool, I work at Khaki & Black on Main Street.

Oh that’s a great store, can’t say I can afford anything in it, but the window looks nice.

You chuckled and my stomach hit the floor. I was so nervous to be in an actual conversation with you that I had almost forgotten to breathe altogether. I was so nervous that I almost didn’t realize you told me where you work. I had been wondering that for a full year. It was much less impressive than I expected. I half expected you to tell me you worked from home and were a millionare funder of a .com or a trust fund girl who just really liked coffee. Instead you proceeded to tell me all about your college career as a creative writing major and how it had failed to be a particularly sound investment. I clung to your every word as if you were Christ himself reading from his own bible. You could have been talking about how to mow grass and I would have listened.

***A side note to my audience, it would appear that I am stalking the girl I simply refer to as “you”. But really I just am fascinated with her from afar, and she was my high school crush from the time I hit puberty until the time I hit the graduation stage.

Moving on, you and I actually had a very pleasant conversation. I even remember sitting down and drinking a coffee with you at one point, until one very rude customer interrupted my mini-date with a question. A question. How dare she? Oh right. I work here. You laughed and I shuffled away from the corner table back to my store where I rung up a woman’s copy of “You Can’t Go Home Again”. Have fun reading that �" its something like banging your head against a wooden door only to find out it is made of steel.

You stayed longer than you usually do, which struck me as odd. I felt timid and hesistant after our conversation, as if finally talking to you actually made my awkwardness worse, which I didn’t think was possible. I went back behind the counter and sliced some lemon cake onto a white porcelain plate. It was fresh and crumbled beautifully. But it wasn’t for me. I brought it over to you and you told me you didn’t order anything else. I smiled and said back

This one’s on the house.

Some people call me awkward, others would say I even just made a smooth move. I don’t really know what to think. Most of what I do with women is just what my mom taught me. Be nice, give her things she wants and put thought into what I’m doing. It isn’t that hard, but people, and you, seem genuinely astounded by it. I decided not to tell you my mom would have appreciated me giving you that cake. I think that might have been weird. You tell me. Love.

I sat and had a piece of lemon cake with you. I picked crumbs off my plate when the conversation lulled and counted the flowers on the painting near the back door. You still seemed stressed and I didn’t want to interrupt the thoughts flowing in your head so I sat in silence. You seem to have appreciated it, but I couldn’t really tell. Sometimes things are really pretty damn awkward and I won’t notice. But I think you appreciated it. I think. Who the f**k knows?

When you finished you looked up at me and smiled. You smiled and it soothed me and made my heart leak it was beating so fast. The words “thank you” had never sounded so attractive, so dripping with feeling. That’s what your words felt like. I don’t know what you meant- you probably just meant “thank you” but to me, it was like the front door opening in April after the ground was finally visible again.

The words thank you changed my life. Now you come into this coffee shop and instead of hiding amongst my stacks I tell the barista to take a smoke break. I happily take the late morning rush if it means being in the same room as you. We actually talk now, and you know my name. you haven’t said it yet but I know that you know it. And when you do say it I might drop the coffee pot. I don’t care if it stains my work shoes or my pants or the welcome carpet near the counter. I’ll drop the entire case of food if you remember my name. I will. Romantic isn’t it?