Payton H. Stantis

The scent of coffee and steaming loaves of sourdough adds to the warm ambience of the cafe. “Good morning! I’ll be right with you!” Meg yells, peeking her head around into the doorway from the bakery in the back and struggling to untie her apron. 

“No rush! Take your time!” I stand pondering the bake case of cream cheese treasures and strawberry basil masterpieces. I decide to buy one of everything. It’s payday. 

Ting ting 

The bell rings, and a customer enters the narrow space behind me. The burst of sunlight entering through the front windows leaves the fellow customer in silhouette. I glance in their direction. I can’t see what they look like, but I can smell them. It is a familiar, sickly and sour stench. Is that, Miss Fancy? They still make that? I think.

Meg returns, and we make small talk about hockey smut as she gathers my medium drip and plethora of pastries. “I accidentally made an extra iced americano, do you want that, too?” 

“Oh, sure! Thank you so much. Have a good one, Meg. I’ll see ya.” 

I grab my beverages and turn around as Meg heads into the back, chasing after the sound of an oven timer. I raise my hand to block some of the UV assault as my glance redirects downward to a peculiar sight – bare feet. No shoes and a ghost tattoo on the right foot with a small heart on its right side. Surely this woman doesn’t have the identical tattoo commemorating a small DIY venue long-passed on the same exact foot as me. I look up to meet her gaze, assuming I’m tired and the sun is creating gaps in my vision that my brain is trying to fill in.  I make direct eye contact with none other than myself. A younger, sadder, drunker version of myself, but myself all the same. 

“Okay, whoa!” her volume level piercing the stillness of the morning, “I must be totally fucking wasted. I need some food.” She laughs. Her pupils are small. She’s blinking hard and rubbing her eyes.  “Well, you may be wasted, but the only substance I’m on is about 80mg of caffeine so far. It’s me, uh, you.”

I notice scrapes on her knees and bruises on her neck. “Here, take this,” I hand her the iced americano and the box of pastries. “Why don’t you go sit down? Can I see the keys to the Blazer?” She looks at me with defiance, then fear, and then ultimately resignation. She throws the massive pile of keys on the table beside us. “Thanks, eat whatever you want from the box. The pastries are great here.” I grab the keys and snap the carabiner on my belt loop.

She stiffly walks to the most hidden booth in the back corner of the coffee shop, trying desperately to look sober. It does not work. I slip out the door to grab a pair of Tevas from the trunk of my car. I don’t have to ask where her shoes are. Someone at some point in her evening tried to prevent her from driving drunk, and she told them, “Look, I’m not going anywhere! I don’t even have my shoes on.”

When I return, she is fully concentrating on demolishing a bearclaw.  If there were a Guinness Book of World Records slot for ‘World’s Fastest Pastry Eater,’ I’d advise her to look into it. “I found you these Tevas.” I startle her. We put our hands up and laugh. She puts the pastry down, wipes her hands on her pants, grabs the shoes with a “thank you”, and proceeds to put them on. “Okay, so am I crazy? Do I need to head back to the psych ward? What is happening right now?”

“I don’t know. Are you leftover drunk?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Are you okay? What’s on your neck?” Her smile turns sour. 

“Oh, you know, just being a dumbass per usual.” 

She lets out a self-conscious laugh, and her gaze averts down to the table. She picks her cuticles. I notice I am picking mine, too.  

“No worries! I have like four pairs and, really, they’re yours.” I sip my hot, black, medium roast from my cup. She chugs the watered-down americano from her glass, dripping with condensation. Ice slides down the side of the cup and smashes her in the face. We laugh. She wipes her mouth with her hand. She is wincing and sucking the teeth on the right side of her mouth. I reflexively suck mine. 

“Oh, man. I’m sorry I forgot about the tooth. Are you in pain?”

“It’s all good. It’ll go away soon.” She is closing her eyes forcefully with her tongue plugging the hole in her molar. “Fuck that sucks, man. When did we get dentures!?” 

“Actually, we didn’t end up needing dentures. Make an appointment with the dental school. Save us a few years of pain, why don’t ya?”

 “Sure thing, when I’m not slinging steak and peanuts to old perverts, I’ll get right on it.” She belches.

She’s a mess, but she has a certain magnetism. I wish I could have seen myself like this fourteen years ago. She pulls a pack of Marlboro 27s from her pocket, flips open the top, and holds it out to me. 

“No thanks, but I’ll stand outside with you.”

“You don’t smoke?” 

“Nope. Don’t drink now either.” 

“BULLSHIT!” She guffaws. 

“I shit ye not, girl.” I giggle. 

We stand up and walk outside to find a stoop. The coffee shop is still unoccupied. The street is quiet and still. She sits on the step, pulls out a BIC and lights her crumpled cigarette. I lean against the wall next to her. My keychain jingles as it hits the brick. She glances at my keys, and her eyes lock in on a small leather frame with a photo of my husband and our son. 

“Oh my God, is that Trevor!?” 

“It is Trevor!” 

“Dude!!! I knew he liked me! I fucking knew it.” 

“He does really like you, he just takes a while.“ 

“Who’s that cute little beebee with him?” 

I look at her and give a soft smile, hoping she’ll come to the conclusion on her own. She is looking at me with one eye closed as she struggles to focus on my face. I hand her my sunglasses, she puts them on and takes a drag.

“That’s Hugo. He’s our son.” I can’t see her eyes behind the glasses, but her eyebrows shoot up, and she coughs out a puff of smoke.

“Are you forreal!?!? He’s so fucking cute. No way!!” 

“He is SO fucking cute. He’s two years old. He’s incredibly funny and smart.”

She grabs the keychain in her fingertips to get a closer look as she puffs out her lower lip and makes a puppy dog face. “The blonde curls!” She squeals,

“The blonde curls, like we always wished for. “

She spends some time staring at the photo. I can see tiny pools of tears forming in her eyes as she tilts her head downward. 

“Life gets so much better than you can ever imagine.” I try to reassure.

“Yeah, okay,” she scoffs. “Can you tell me when? How old are you, anyway?”

“I’m 34. I can’t pinpoint when, I just know that it does. It’s not an easy peasy path by any means, but we do a lot. We host radio shows, we run a bakery business, and we go to South Africa to do film work. A lot of people say our wedding was one of the most fun weddings they’ve ever been to, so that’s something to look forward to.”

“Fuck! Ow!” She swats the cigarette that has fallen from her hands off her toes. “Damn, man. I didn’t expect to live past my twenties, so you’re kind of ruining my plans.”

“I know, but trust me, it is worth it. It is so worth it.”

We sit for a few moments in silence, staring straight ahead, neither of us certain of what to say next. She turns and looks at me with a warm smile, “You look so pretty.” She says in a soft, sleepy voice.

“You do, too.”

She crosses her arms and rests them on her knees before laying her head in them. 

“Hey, can I drive you home? You look tired.” 

She nods and reaches out her hand for me to help her up. 

“Cool, let me pee first,” I grunt as I do the majority of the work lifting this small, inebriated woman from the step. 

“Heard,” she agrees with the point of a finger gun in my direction.

She walks to the booth, humming and belching her way across the restaurant. I head down the hall towards the bathroom, and stop to turn and look back at her. She is sitting in the booth, one leg crossed under the other. I can see a small drop of blood on her lip as she tries to pinch off the tiny pieces of dead, chapped skin. I’m chewing mine, too. Some things never change. 

While I was in the restroom, the cafe had filled with people. I walk back in the direction of my seat and make eye contact with Meg at the counter.

“Which pastry was your fav?!” She asks, “I think I have to go with the bearclaw. I’ll be dreaming about it the rest of the day.” I turn to look at the booth. The glowing box of pastries sits in the sunlight, opened slightly. There are crumbs and napkins scattered about the Formica tabletop. The seats are empty. I walk to the table, place the napkins in my bag, and sling it over my shoulder. Did I just hallucinate?  I grab my paper cup and my box of pastries – the americano vessel is nowhere in sight. Swiftly, I head towards the door. My brain is racing with questions. 

A voice suddenly comes from behind me. “Are these someone’s shoes?” I turn around following the direction of the sound.  Under the left side of the bench seat, tucked slightly in shadow rest a worn-down pair of teal Tevas. I choke out a response.

“Yeah. They’re mine.”