My fingers feel
cold. A small spoon clasped between my first finger and thumb. It twiddles
lightly, like a dance between the three; my thumb and finger fighting for the
lovely spoon, with its decorative swirls on the tip. I hold it tightly, and
bring it to my lips. The honey and lavender tastes are strong. I can almost taste
my regret, ordering an extra honey earl grey tea latte. The cup is still full,
and steaming. I like the way I can see the warmth dance before me. It’s
swirling and twisting. A time I once wore a dress so similar occurs. How it
flowed beautifully in the breeze. A small twirl, and soon a lovely cloud
followed me through. But that was a time long ago - or at least a few months
prior.
The coffee shop
is small. It is my town’s gem. Privately owned and a small business, it’s been
open for 45 years. Opened a by a Russian couple years before I was born, it has
survived many years and, raised so many people. My town is small, but not small
enough that I know everyone. Maybe one day, I will. My parents do. They seem to
know everyone and everyone knows them, especially the elderly couple who opened
the store. They watched my parents’ proposal. Every time I come in, Mrs. Smirnova
tells me the story; as if it’s the first I have been told. I don’t mind. She
details how my dad was waiting in this spot I am. He nervous twiddled his own
spoon, in his black coffee with one sugar cube. She remembers the details quite
well, I ponder. She tells about how nicely combed his hair was, parted out of
his face, and held down by what must have been hair spray. He would smile at
her occasionally, and Mr. Smirnova would chuckle at how he his smile was so
shy.
Mrs. Smirnova
would tell me how beautiful my mother looked that day. She looked like she came
out of a fairy tale. Her gold tresses were braided off to the side, the summer
dress, painted in pink and yellow flowers, her sandals wrapping her feet and
ankles. She wore an array of bracelets and one necklace. You would almost think
my mother knew what was going to happen. But how could she? My father told no
one but the Smirnova’s. As my mother walked in, Mr. Smirnova dropped of a honey
scone and earl grey tea. “From this dashing young gent”, he says with a wink
and chuckle, at least I imagine that’s what he said. My mother smiles, her rosy
cheeks plump under her eyes, and her pink lips split revealing her pearly
whites. She thanks him. As she and my father speak, the build up begins. He can’t
talk anymore, his words fumble.
It’s obvious at
this point, I would think; but at 18 my mom is so innocent, she would not
understand why my dad, in the middle of his college years is tripping on his
words and forgetting what he was saying. He looks down at his lap. It’s funny,
in these days if a guy did that, he would be texting, or looking at a picture
on his phone, or something uninvolved. But in that time, my father would change
his, my mother and my life. My dad stepped out of his seat and pointed out my
mom’s sandal, one of them was untied at the top. He bent down next to her, and
laced them back, before he could stand, and before she thanks him, he pulls out
a ring, and asks her, “Will you marry me?”
You can guess
what continues. Most of their planning took place in this coffee shop. The arguments,
the make ups, the decisions; almost all of it was here. They spent so many
dates here, they raised me here. Mr and Mrs. Smirnova are almost like the
grandparents I didn’t get to meet.
The door chimes,
indicating someone walked in. A lady in a tan coat walks in, her brown hair is
tied up and her lips are bright red. She is quite pale. I see her around the
elementary school once in a while. Beside her, she is holding hands with a
young girl, her hair is blonde and free, and it’s messy. I’m sure her mother
tried and failed to comb through it. The girl is wearing a purple striped
shirt, with what looks like a unicorn or a dolphin – I can’t see – on the
front. She is wearing a pink tutu on top of her faded pale jeans. Her feet are
hidden away by yellow rain boots with white rims. A plastic baby blue purse is
hooked in her elbow, and in that same hand she holding a plush kitten. I cannot
imagine the tousle she and her mother must have had about her bringing so many
toys.
They two of them
step in, and walk along the old wooden floor, manoeuvring their way around the
many tables, chairs and the set of four couches in the middle. They stop at the
bar, where one of the employees makes and calls drink. A fairly handsome man
smiles at them. He bends down and reaches his arms out, the little girl runs to
him, waving the cat mercilessly. He grins harder and calls her a monster,
throwing her up in the air and cradling her, then putting her on the seat. He
smiles at the woman, and pushes back his wavy blonde hair. His beard and
moustache move with skin on his face, creating a perfect frame to his perfect
smile, his lips move. In my head, I think he offered the woman a drink. She waves
her hand, covered in a glove. She moves past him, to the girl and kisses her
head. She holds the little girl, and seems to whispering something, `Behave, be
good, wash your hands and face and brush your teeth.’ I think, as I make up
their lines. The woman turns and hugs the man, then leaves.
I remember my
mom and dad talking about the two of them getting a divorce two years ago.
Their daughter, at the age hasn’t seemed to be hit with that “divorcee-kid”
thing my dad talked about. My mom said she was too young, and still is. My eyes
follow the woman; I hear the door ring again as she exits. My seat by the
window allows a clear view of her stepping into her car across the street, and
as she drives off.
I pull my hair
back, and wrap my hair tie around it. The black waves hit my neck occasionally.
My father did not grow up in this town; he stayed here for college, because it
was cheaper than a dorm, and closer than his birth home. I haven’t seen my
grandparents on his side much because they live in Vancouver, at least a 3 hour
drive from this town. The migrated here, when they got married back in their
home country, Japan. That’s why sometimes my dad and I are known as the Hayashi
two. My mom kept her last name, and my dad and I are the only ones with a
completely foreign surname. I like it.
A loud laugh
fills the room. I look the registers, behind the counter, Mr. Smirnova bellows
something in Russian, probably something about “old country”, his face is
wrinkled but his hair is still thick. It is a mix bold silver and rustic grey.
His moustache is thick as well, only a few slivers of brown left, very few. I
can hear him telling me he is lucky to have part of his youth. Mrs. Smirnova
steps out of the back room, scolding him for how loud he is. Her Russian accent
is thick, but her voice is light. It’s smooth and velvety. I have always loved
her hearing her talk. I hear the two of them playfully bicker in their
language. They are always like that, ever since I can remember. Every time I
come in, he’ll say or do something and she will pick at him. He will laugh at
her for how she is so prim and poised, always proper.
“This not like
old country anymore, you know.” He’ll shout, with a laugh.
She’ll roll her
eyes, and look at me, “Don’t marry loony like him.” And I’ll laugh at this
routine. It’s been this way for years. Many of us citizens know this.
Sometimes, people stay just to watch them. It’s like a sitcom, a poorly
written, but charming sitcom. Myself, and many others have always admired the
two of them, for staying together through so much. For the thick and thin, they
remained in love. Mr. Smirnova stops by my table, and sets a blueberry muffin,
warmed up with butter on the side. “On the house, myshka.” It’s a name his
given all my friends and myself. It means little mouse. He whispers, “Don’t
tell mama” – who is Mrs. Smirnova, “I get in trouble.”
He smiles and
winks, then goes back behind the counter. And wraps arms around his wife’s
waist, and kisses her cheek tenderly. She smiles and leans into his embrace. I
see her lips moving. I wonder what she says. I wonder what tender words she
whispers to him, what little inside jokes they have. A smile pulls at the
corner of my lips, as I see her turn – his hands still on her waist. She taps
his chin, then fixes his plaid collared shirt, and straightens out the tacky
olive coloured sweater vest. She then pats his stomach and pushes him off.
Again, his loud laugh bellowing, probably because of something she said. She
goes back to drying off the dishes.
I take a sip of
my latte; it’s cooler now, but still warm. I watch Mr. Smirnova put two hot
cups on a coffee table in the middle of four old couches. He straightens out
and pats his own back, as if to hit out the kinks. Before he goes back to the
kitchen, I see him put his hand on a young boy’s shoulder, he bends over again.
They’re fairly close my little table, and I can barely hear him saying, “Pay
for the drink and you get lady, ah? Make sure bring her home, maybe she give
you kiss.” His laughs hard and stands ups, hands on his hips as if he were
proud of his life advice. The boy’s face is bright pink. He has freckles, and
little bit of acne. His eye brows are quite thick, and I would imagine he is
trying to grow facial hair. He’s wearing a red cap that covers his shaggy hair.
His hair is a mixture of dirty blonde and brown. He fixes his cap, and slants a
little bit off his head. I don’t understand teenagers anymore. He is wearing a
black hoodie, and tan khaki pants, they taper at his ankles, above his
checkered vans. Across from him is a giggle girl.
She’s fairly
pretty, I think. Her facial features are still growing into her beauty. Her
nose is like a large button, it’s cute, but big. Her eyes are small from
laughter, but there are little crow’s feet at the corners. Her face is pale, as
is the rest of her skin. Her hair is tied into a messy bun. It bounces with her
laughter. Around her neck is a white knit wool scarf, it looks comfy and warm.
In her hands is a matching toque. Her body is wrapped up in a grey, cotton
sweater. That’s probably why she has the scarf still on. It is hardly enough to
keep the cold weather out, when she was outside. But her jeans are nice. They
look freshly washed. And just under her knees her tall brown boots reach up.
I wonder if they
go to the high school my dad is a counsellor for. I roll my eyes, of course
they are. This is such a small town. In my head I can see them standing at
their lockers, passing shy glances and cute smiles. I bet he sprays his best deodorant
on every day. I’m sure she walks past him, just to smell it. I close my eyes,
and cynically wonder, ‘how long will this one last.’ I prop on elbow on the table, and rest my
head in that hand; the other hand cupping my supporting elbow. I look at them.
Is this their first date. Is this the day he’ll say ‘I love you’, or the day
she give him his first kiss. I wonder how many firsts they will have. She gives
him a gently but flirty push on his arm. He laughs. My eyebrow quirks at this.
They won’t be laughing on the day of their first fight. I let out a heavy sigh.
And slump into my seat. I go back to twirling my spoon. It’s cold again.
My fingers feel
cold. A small spoon clasped between my first finger and thumb. It twiddles
lightly, like a dance between the three; my thumb and finger fighting for the
lovely spoon, with its decorative swirls on the tip. I hold it tightly, and
bring it to my lips. The honey and lavender tastes are strong. I can almost taste
my regret, ordering an extra honey earl grey tea latte. The cup is still full,
and steaming. I like the way I can see the warmth dance before me. It’s
swirling and twisting. A time I once wore a dress so similar occurs. How it
flowed beautifully in the breeze. A small twirl, and soon a lovely cloud
followed me through. But that was a time long ago - or at least a few months
prior.
The door chimes
as it opens, I glance up, then quickly glance down, back at my drink as I stir
it around, watching the swirls of milk and tea.
“Did you wait
long?”
I don’t respond.
I hear him breathing out through puffed lips. The screech of the chair as it is
pulled out, and the creak of weight on it fills my ears. I look up again. There
he is. His brown is messy, wind kissed - my guess is he ran here. He wore a
black and red plaid flannel shirt, under it was a black v-neck. He did not
button up. I feel a small tingle of worry in my stomach. It is cold outside he
could have dressed better. He’s wearing his favourite pair of black jeans that
have rips at the knees. He has these brown shoes. They’re leather and lace up,
with these cute little rustic decorations around them. He’s looking down, at
his hands. They are held together on the table, and he is twiddling his thumbs.
I stare at them through passive eyes. It’s what he does when he’s nervous,
thinking, or needs to pee.
Mr. Smirnova
once again makes his way over to us. “Ah, you make lady wait. You in trouble,
yes?” He laughs. He puts a mug in front of the boy, fills it with coffee and walks
off. He waves his hand, “You pay later, unless lady hit you.”
Mrs. Smirnova
yells at him.
“That was… nice
of him?”
I puff out an
exasperated breath. “What do you want, Jack.” I cross my arms over my chest. My
brows are now furled together, one slightly quirked – a trait I earned from my
father whenever he got annoyed. “First you call me at 1 in the morning, then
you get here 20 minutes late. What do you want?”
Jack looks up,
his thumbs have stopped twiddling, but his hands are still together. His face
is handsome. His features are defined, and he a squared of jaw. I think that is
what first attracted me to him. Unlike most of the men in my town, he is clean
shaven. I can perfectly see his lips, slightly parted. A small quiver shakes
them further apart, before he finally responds, “You know what I want.”
“Really. Really,
Jack, really?” I place my elbows on the table my arms crossed. My hair falls
over my left shoulder. I had forgotten I tied it. “This conversation… here?” We’ve
been together for 3 and half years. We first met, at my high graduation. He is
my best friend, Alexis’ cousin. She’s the reason we’re together, almost. I don’t
know if I should thank her or hit her. He came here just for her grad, and some
other special occasions. The time we actually first talked was when my parents
had a dinner for me, my best friends’ family – who are also my mom’s close
family friends – was invited, and so was Jack. Despite being the celebrant, my
parents made me wash the dishes. And being a kind soul, Jack offered to help.
After that, he
stayed a little while longer. I chose not to go to college quite yet, and did a
bit of soul searching. Kind of, I actually just started to work at the grocery
a few blocks from the shop. I had no idea what to do and where to go, so
instead of wasting money on classes that wouldn’t benefit me, I worked and
saved money. Jack and his family left, back home. We never spoke again.
A year later, Alexis
asked me to go with her to visit his family. I have feeling she only asked me
as a favour to Jack. Don’t get me wrong, she loves me, but why bring me to
visit her family. That, and Jack asked me on a date as soon as we got there.
Things went well, and as I said, it’s been three years and six months. Things
have always been good. We got along, we had great times, he even moved up here,
just to stay with me. He got a job as a delivery and mailman for the town post
office, and we have been happy since.
At least, since
I decided I wanted to go to Vancouver and study English Literature. I would
live my grandparents for a while, but come home every two weeks. Gas is not
cheap, and drive is not the kindest of roads. Since then, we started fighting
about our futures. Jack moved all the way up here for me, left his old job at
the oil rigs for me. I guess the fighting came when he brought up he could not
follow me to Vancouver, because my grandparents would not allow him to move in.
Vancouver housing isn’t cheap, renting would be so difficult, especially
renting a nice place. And to top it off, jobs were not so easy to come across. It’s
not like he could ask the owner of a local store, and it would be given in a
heartbeat.
“Where else?
When? When the winter passes and you have to move?” Jack leaned in closer, his
voice lowered. “We have to talk about this.”
“Now isn’t a
good time.”
“It never is.
For you, at least.”
I glance away, I
don’t want to look at him. My mouth is left hanging. I want to fight back, but
he’s right. “Look, just because I decided to grow up, doesn’t mean it’s my
fault that this is happening.”
“I never blamed
you.”
“I never – fine.
But we had a good run, Jack.”
He straightens
out, palms flat on the table. His face looks troubled; one corner of his lip is
pulled into a confused sneer. “’We had a good run?’ What is that supposed to
mean, is this it? Are we done?” He pushes away from the table, back straight
against the chair.
“No. I don’t
know, I have to figure this out.”
“You say that,
Stacey. You always do, but you never talk about it.” I’m about to speak but he
keeps going. “That’s what couples do. That’s what you used to do. What, did you
grow up and decide to leave me with your ‘young and wild’ phase?”
“No, Jack.” I
put my hands on my face. I wipe on hand down, the other massages my temple. “I
don’t want to leave you, but I put off going to school for this. For me, for
us. I was supposed to find myself, but we started dating soon after grad.” He’s
silent. “Don’t you get it? It’s time for us to grow up.”
“Let’s grow up
together.”
I’m shocked. I don’t
know where this is going. I can feel my heart, it’s pounding hard against my
ribs. Where did that come from? What is he saying? I can hear my heart beat, my
blood flowing into my hands and feet. My knees are loose. If this is a joke, I’m
ready to scream. I can feel my face heat and my eyes water. Jack stands up. I
shake my head in disbelief. He takes a few steps next to me. My hands cover my mouth.
