Short Story

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.