Night Shifts Black

by Alyson Santos

  He appears to notice my embellished farewell. He almost seems disturbed by the sound of his name, like he’s not used to hearing it anymore.

  “Thanks. You too. Callie.”

  I grin at his pronunciation. It’s not quite right with an “a” that sounds more like an “o,” but I like it better the way he says it. Now, I don’t want to leave. I’m not sure I can, but I have to. I don’t belong here, in his world.

  I get the sense no one does.

  Day Three.

  It’s another three days before I finally go back. I wanted to go the next day, and the next, but I used all the strength I had to let my will overcome my compassion. I wasn’t ready to face that chair, whatever it is. Whatever he is. This fledging relationship built on a mutual understanding that there isn’t one. It felt like I’d be breaking one of our rules if I went back too early. Like I’d be pushing for a place in his life when he clearly doesn’t want me in it. If I waited, though, just a couple days, even, then we could blame it on chance. It wouldn’t be fair for him to claim my favorite café and force me out permanently. He’d understand that and have to respect the fact that I’d reappear eventually.

  So here I am. Day three.

  I take the table beside the one with his chair again. The same one where we almost shared breakfast last time. When I see him enter, my pulse quickens. I don’t know if it’s attraction. Probably. How could it not be? But it’s also something else. Fear maybe, that he won’t accept my presence. That he’s spent the last few days in this spot without me, relieved I’ve disappeared and left him in peace.

  My fear dissolves into a rush of something else when he nearly smiles and heads straight for our table.

  “You’re back,” he says, removing his jacket and placing it on the back of the chair. His vintage t-shirt is thin today, and I notice the hint of tattoos peaking through the light-colored sleeves. He’s also muscular, more than I would have thought. Not obsessively so, like he spends every waking hour working on his body, but naturally, like he lives a life where it’s inevitable. I can’t help but wonder what fills his hours when he’s not in Jemma’s Café staring at that chair.

  “The tea here is second to none.”

  He smirks and drops across from me. “If this is going to be a regular thing, you’ll have to do more than drink tea. It’s a little too obvious.”

  My heart soars. I don’t even know why, unless it’s because it’s the first time he’s acknowledged that I’ve made an impact.

  “I almost had pancakes last time.”

  “Almost. Just so you know, I didn’t stay for the toast either. I’m surprised they let us back in.”

  I smile. “We paid for our wasted food. Did we leave a decent tip?”

  “Since you emptied your wallet on the table, I think we covered it.”

  “How do you know I emptied my wallet?” I ask.

  “I watched you do it. You almost threw in a couple receipts, too, until you stuffed those back in.”

  “Yeah, but…” I don’t finish. He’s observant, like me. I wonder how many other things he’s noticed about me. That I’m left-handed? That my hair is darker than what seems natural for my skin tone? That my eyes are too big for my face, but really all my features are, so maybe they work together anyway. I realize there are a lot of things people could observe about me, and consider how one-sided my approach has been to forming my world.

  “I was in a hurry,” I explain.

  “Right, because you were late for work.”

  “I was.”

  “Yeah?”

  I swallow. “Yeah.” I look at my phone and wince. If I had been late that day, then I’m really running behind today. “I have staggered hours?”

  He grins and nods. “Ok.”

  I return his smile and clear my throat. “Fine. You caught me. I actually make my own hours.”

  “I see. Then technically you could have been late, if you’d decided you were.”

  I like his observation, for many reasons.

  “Technically.”

  “Well, that’s helpful then. Now I don’t have to be offended that you ditched me.”

  “Ditched you? Please. I was doing you a favor by leaving, wasn’t I?”

  His smile fades, but this time he doesn’t totally retreat to that dark place that makes me regret approaching his wall. This particular withdrawal is more introspective.

  “Maybe.”

  “So what are your hours, then?”

  “I guess I make my own hours as well.”

  “Self-employed?”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  He nods. He didn’t answer my question. He doesn’t intend to answer my question. I wonder if it’s the question itself, or a deeper flaw. I doubt he will answer any of my questions, so I decide not to ask any more for now.

  “I’m a writer,” I continue, accepting that if we’re going to talk, it will have to be about me.

  That seems to interest him, and I know I will have to make this topic seem a lot more glamorous than it is. I don’t usually worry about other people’s opinions, but now I want to impress him for some reason.

  “A writer, really? What do you write?”

  “Everything I can. A lot of it is to pay the bills, but some is to keep me sane.”

  “I’m more interested in the part that keeps you sane.”

  I expected as much and lean forward. I’m disappointed when the server prevents my response.

  We place our orders, and the server eyes us with subtle suspicion. I don’t blame him, given the fact that we walked out on him the last time we were here together. I wonder again if Luke sat here alone the last two days without me. I wonder if he ordered anything. I wonder if he wondered where I was. I doubt it, and the thought makes me sad.

  “Poetry mostly.”

  “Poetry?”

  “The part that keeps me sane.”

  “I see. Interesting.”

  “What about you?” I kick myself. No questions. I wait for him to shut down, but this time he doesn’t.

  “No poetry. Not exactly, anyway.”

  “Novels?”

  He smirks. “No. Maybe one day.”

  “Can you give me a hint? My next guess will be travel brochures.”

  He smiles. “Song lyrics.”

  Suddenly, it hits me. I don’t know how I missed this. “You’re a musician,” I guess.

  He seems disturbed. “Used to be, but yeah.”

  All of the sudden I want to look at the chair, but this time I’m able to stop myself. There’s no way I’m messing this up.

  “Used to be?”

  “Used to be.”

  “Is music something that ever really goes away?”

  He visibly shrinks.

  Stupid! I’m furious with myself.

  “Yes. I wouldn’t have thought so, but yes, it can.”

  We’re silent, both letting that thought settle around us, deep into the cracks of our tenuous alliance. Me wondering what it would take to break a musician of his music. Him wondering…I have no idea.

  At least I understand his hair now. And his clothes. And the fact that he doesn’t really fit in here. He never wore suits like I’d originally thought, but he also doesn’t wear jeans like the rest of us. I know my head shouldn’t go where it does, but the thought blasts through before I can stop it. I wonder if he’s a musician I would know. “Musician” could mean anything, but there’s something about him that makes me think he’s in a tier I’d recognize. I think back to that strange glimmer of recognition when I first saw him.

  But I don’t ask, for once managing to hold my destructive question inside.

  The silence continues, although it’s not awkward this time. I like that we don’t have to talk. I like that simply watching his eyes work the room is enough to replace any need for conversation. I find it fascinating that he’s ok with my presence, but doesn’t really need me here. Part of me thinks I could be anyone, and he’d be sitti
ng in the same position, tattooed arm resting on the table, fingers absently exploring the napkin. Fingers that used to explore a piano, or guitar, or flute. I want to know which one and think maybe that’s a safe question.

  “What instrument did you play?” I ask, breaking the silence.

  It was safe enough, and he comes back to me.

  “Guitar mostly, but we all played everything.”

  “In a band?”

  He nods. I sense that I shouldn’t go any further.

  “Not an American band, though,” I tease.

  He smiles again. “Actually, yes. Don’t let the accent fool you.”

  “So it’s just a fake one?”

  My joke startles him, but he likes it. “My accent? No, it’s real. It didn’t hurt my image as a frontman either.”

  Another clue. “I’d imagine not. I have yet to meet a girl who is anti-cute-musicians-with-accents.”

  “No? I have,” he returns with a grin.

  “Really?” I ask, skeptical. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess they were anti-something else.”

  This time the grin spreads into his eyes, and I actually catch my breath for a second.

  “You’re probably right about that.”

  It’s then that I notice it. The ring. My heart stops.

  I don’t know how I missed that as well, and it makes no sense that I’m disappointed. It’s not like this is a date, or any hope of a date. This isn’t even about that. Maybe that’s the problem. This is more than that, and the fact that he shares these moments with someone else the other 23 hours of his day hits me harder than it should.

  But I don’t ask. I don’t say anything. I actually pretend I don’t see the dark band on his left hand, even though I’m captivated by the way it encircles his finger, a finger perfectly refined by years of creating art. The ring is a work of art in itself, nothing like I’ve ever seen before. It suits him. A musician’s ring. A ring a rock star would wear after marrying the exotic lingerie model most men would kill for.

  I say nothing, afraid if I do he’ll think I’m suggesting something I’m not. I’m afraid he’ll be guilty and he hasn’t done anything wrong.

  Our breakfast arrives, and I can almost sense our server’s relief that we’re still here to receive it this time. He hovers a little longer than necessary, reciting a list of possible additions to our meal no one over the age of seven should need to review. We assure him we’re fine, and he finally backs away, still watching as if expecting us to disappear before he can return with the check.

  “His life will never be the same,” I whisper when he finally accepts that his job of delivering our food is done.

  “I fear you’re right,” Luke responds. “Should we apologize for last time?”

  “I don’t know. That might freak him out even more.”

  “We don’t want that. We’ll just have to regain his trust over time.”

  My knife stops cutting. I know I shouldn’t, but I look up anyway.

  He clears his throat. “I’m sorry. That was forward.”

  Forward? That was amazing.

  “I have nothing better to do in the mornings if you don’t,” I reply as casually as possible.

  I hate that I suddenly think about the chair. He does, too, and glances over. We both do. We stare at it. We stare at it until he finally shakes his head and closes his eyes. His knife hovers over his plate. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t explain. He just remembers why he’s really here and it’s not to have breakfast with me. He’s betrayed himself. His chair.

  “It’s ok,” I say quietly. “Luke, it’s ok.”

  He opens his eyes and this time they’re clouded. There are tears there, threatening. He’s fighting them so hard his knuckles are white on his utensils. I notice that. I notice everything about him at that moment. I’m also powerless to do anything but watch and it kills me.

  He laughs, but there’s no humor now. He swats at his eyes and I can’t tell if he’s angry or simply embarrassed. It might be neither. I have a feeling it’s too complicated to classify. I don’t know where to begin, he’s given me nothing to work with, but the one thing I can do is just be. I’m good at that.

  I’m quiet. I wait. I put down my fork, mirroring his action. He stares at his, but that I don’t do. I can’t look away from his face. From the pain and sadness and fear. It’s horrifying and beautiful at the same time. His instinct is telling him to run. I watch his eyes trace the path from the chair to the door. His leg has shifted to clear the base of the table. He’s poised for flight, but not in a weak way. He’s not going to run for the exit. He has enough control, enough strength to make a graceful escape. He will form an excuse, maybe coupled with an apology, offer one of his priceless smiles. Then with a calm stride, he’ll be gone. Dignity intact. Strength unquestioned. Another confusing shift for our server.

  I can’t let that happen.

  “Did you want the jam for your toast?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not sure why he put it on my side of the table if you’re the one with the toast. Here.”

  He hesitates, not sure what to do with me and my resistance. I hold my breath. The chair. The door.

  “Sure,” he says finally.

  I smile as if I expected that response, even though I still can’t breathe. “I’m going to guess blueberry.”

  “Orange marmalade, actually.”

  “Really? Ok, wow. So first you ordered eggs with your toast today, then you chose orange marmalade. I may have misjudged you.”

  “You assign a lot of value to people’s breakfast choices.”

  “We’re in a café. What metric would you suggest?”

  The smile returns, genuine this time, and it has a strange effect with the redness still influencing his eyes. It’s haunting, in a way. One of those images that I’m afraid will affect me at a later moment, when I least expect it.

  “You’re right. That’s fair. Although I notice you went with pancakes, fruit, and no bacon again.”

  I don’t know why I’m surprised he remembers. It was only three days ago.

  “I’m pretty predictable.”

  “I’d argue that.”

  The comment warms me, but I let it go. He isn’t trying to start a conversation; he’s trying to end one.

  We stop talking, using our engagement with this cheap breakfast as a shield against another grenade that could destroy everything we’ve just spent three days building. And to think, this used to be my favorite place for tea. Now, it’s my favorite place for pretending to eat pancakes.

  I watch my plate clear. Quickly at first, then slower as my stomach fills up. There’s something sad about our pace. I know it will be time to leave soon. Time to go back to my apartment and try to work on the part of my life that doesn’t include the magnetic puzzle sitting across from me. Time for him to return to whatever it is he does now that he doesn’t have music.

  The server returns, almost stunned we’ve not only accepted our meal, but consumed it.

  “Can I get you anything else? We have several fresh baked goods. Coffee?”

  Luke shakes his head and gives his polite smile. Not the real one. I wonder if he even knows how many he has.

  “Thanks, but I’m full. This was great.”

  The server nods and turns to me. I offer an apologetic look. “No, thank you.”

  “Ok. I’ll get your check.”

  “Thanks,” Luke replies. “You sure you don’t want anything else? My treat this time since you paid for the last one.”

  I give him a similar response, but decide not to argue about the bill. He’s right. I did cover the last breakfast. And then some.

  It’s time.

  My legs feel heavy as I force a casual front and push up from the table. I reach for my jacket and find myself struggling with the zipper. I don’t think it’s on purpose, but maybe it is. I don’t want to say goodbye yet. I don’t want him to know that.

  “Thanks for breakfast,�
�� I say.

  “You’re welcome. Thanks for breakfast on Tuesday,” he responds.

  We exchange a smile. More than a smile.

  I begin counting the minutes until tomorrow.

  ∞∞∞

  Luke doesn’t show the next day. I order my tea to save face, but I’m beyond disappointed. I entertain all kinds of irrational thoughts. Silly things that only an over-analytical writer could invent. He’d think I’d lost my mind if he were here and I actually shared any of them with him. I wouldn’t blame him.

  But he’s not here. He never promised he would be.

  I sip my tea, staring out the window. I can’t stare for long until my gaze crosses paths with the chair. It’s still vacant. In fact, I realize I haven’t seen anyone in it since I’d been an unknowing trespasser. I think it will be strange watching someone sit in it. Irreverent somehow. It won’t be his or her fault. The intruder won’t know the blasphemy they’re committing. I imagine what would happen to Luke’s face if he were here eating his toast with orange marmalade and all of the sudden someone sat in the chair. I can almost see the darkness settle over his features, the internal battle that rages every time his present clashes with that part of his past. My instinct wants to call it “his chair” but I don’t think it is. There’s a ghost there, in that chair.

  The hair rises on my arm as I study it, only five feet away. I could probably touch it and even make it look like an accident if I wanted to. I don’t know why I’d want to. It’s Luke’s chair, not mine. I don’t touch it. I don’t have that right.

  Day Four.

  It’s hard to admit I’m relieved to see the distinctive leather jacket when I enter, but there’s a flood of something rushing through me, so I have to acknowledge it. He’s switched sides at our table. I only see the back of his head because he wasn’t watching for me like I watched for him yesterday and the day before.

  I approach slowly, still not entirely confident he will welcome my presence. If I go in casual, it will be easier to fake a retreat when he recoils.