Morning Mantra

A cafe, a routine, and a broken heart.

                                                                          

For the fourth day in a row, Shanna made her way through the crowded cafe, pushing past the glossy tables littered with chic oversized mugs, stepping around young men and women huddled over glaring screens. The line of quiet morning coffee addicts was shorter than usual and moved quickly. One by one blurry-eyed professionals with cell phones in hand stepped forward to recite their morning mantra- grande double americano, 1 shot of espresso, skim milk-like a prayer. A bored-looking woman with shocking pink hair repeated each order perfectly. Her fingers danced over the touch screen computer, barely making eye contact as she listened for the beep of a satiated card machine. 

When it was Shanna’s turn to order, she ordered his drink first, just like she always did. Tall coffee, extra hot, black. And unlike each day other than the past three, she stopped herself from ordering her own preferred drink and pulled out her credit card. A swipe, a beep, a decline of the receipt. She made her way over to the drink counter to join the zombies clad in tight suits,leggings, and pashmina scarves to wait. The simplicity of the order meant almost immediately the tiny barista, whose face was almost completely obscured by her green baseball cap, announced the name she had given-his name. And with the familiarity of a woman used to making herself small, she moved seamlessly through the crowd to collect the cup and head over to their table. 

Their table. Almost instinctively she expected to see him sitting in his usual seat, his back to her, his tight dark curls gleaming under the warm light. He wasn’t a large man (actually, he was quite slight), but his presence was commanding. The slope of his shoulders, the angle with which he held his head, the way his long fingered hands splayed themselves out on his thighs as he waited- he was noticed. Of course they notice me, he often joked, gesturing to the room. Do you see anyone else that looks like me sitting here? But Shanna shook her head, rolled her eyes, and pretended there wasn’t truth in that statement. No, she would snap at him. You carry yourself as if everywhere you are, you should be. It would be his turn to roll his eyes at her vague, flowery words. But he would still extend his hand to hers, and press it to his lips. She meant it fiercely. She meant every flowery, over-articulated word she said to him, except for the last ones. 

But he wasn’t sitting at the table. His seat was empty as it had been for the past three days. She slipped into it, and set her purse and computer bag down in her usual seat. The coffee was bitter and burned her tongue but she drank it anyway, punishing herself. She took tiny, rapid-fire sips, swallowing against the hard lump of her throat. She reached blindly to the table beside her for a discarded newspaper and flipped to his favorite section. She didn’t read, but allowed her eyes to slide across the headlines, unfocused. She sat in his seat, drank his coffee, and read his paper. If no one did, then no one was. 

Draining the last sip, her mimicry was finished. Instead, she closed her eyes and listened for the soft cadence of his voice. She could recreate it from memory almost perfectly. The confused accent and the way his questions rose and inflected at strange intervals to American ears. He would ask her the mundane questions that sketched their days apart and she would answer vaguely, throwing out a sarcastic joke or ironic jab to see him smile, maybe laugh. Her turn to question, his turn to answer, always more thoughtful and earnest. He never tried to make her laugh, though she often did. 

Their conversations danced skillfully, since their first encounter. So easily, they knew where the other person was going to step and how their words would leap and fall and rise again.  His answer and her response often seemed premeditated and too thoughtful for playful banter over drinks. Friends teased that they were dizzying to listen to. Shanna made her way through their conversation, pausing only to scoot her chair forward to allow a woman with a stroller to pass more easily. Though she noticed that today her mind was tired and her imagination yellowing like a photograph. His answers were much the same as yesterday’s. 

She blew out a frustrated puff of air and massaged her temples. She needed to get to work- she could hear her phone vibrating with morning emails from her coworkers. Yesterday, she was diving to check every message-maybe it was him. Today, she vowed to be better. I just need time to think, she muttered to herself. That was her stock answer to concerned friends and family when suddenly invitations to parties and happy hours and dinners started pouring in. We heard, they said simply. Here if you need us. Just let us know. Her polite answers fell on well-intentioned, deaf ears. No one said the things you were supposed to say to a woman. You are better off without him. You deserve more. He wasn’t good enough. Because those were lies. She was not better off. She didn’t deserve more. SHE wasn’t good enough. And for a brief moment she loosened the careful reins she had on her mind and wondered where he was and what he was doing and if people were saying those necessary, truthful words to him. 

And just like that, she found herself back to square one- shoving a fist in her mouth so she wouldn’t cry and scream. She bit down until her mouth tasted of metal and her hand ached. Deep breaths. Relax your shoulders. Sit up straight. Be OK. Another morning mantra. It took 5 times around those words to regain her composure. And one elderly woman in a purple track suit who placed a handful of napkins on her table discreetly as she passed. 

Her watch scolded her. Move, it said. And with one last steadying breath, she collected her things, threw his coffee cup away, and slipped out of the door. Until tomorrow.