A Room With A View

Chapter Nine - Brian

September 4th, Monday

It was Monday morning in New York, and Brian was on his way to meet his sister for breakfast. She lived in a small studio in Greenwich Village, and had suggested the new coffee place that had opened in the ground floor of her building. Café Clark, or something like that.

Brian took a seat on the subway and opened his book. A balding man was sitting across the way from him, looking forlorn. There was a younger guy next to him with a mass of dark curly hair. Every now and then the younger guy would start a conversation, but the older man would just adjust his beige tie and give him a monosyllabic answer. They got off at a midtown stop, toting their respective briefcases. Brian thought the younger guy looked a bit like Mr. 15J.

The subway slid along at a snail's pace. There was track work being done, and so all the subways were moving in fits and starts. It gave Brian a chance to eavesdrop on the couple next to him. They were chatting in hushed tones about the woman's new job. She was dropping some very juicy terms about her boss, and Brian was filing these phrases away to regurgitate into his novel. There was no better inspiration than people watching.

"Eighth Street, NYU," the conductor announced. Brian stepped off the train and hustled his way to Washington Square Park. His sister Alina's apartment was just southwest of the park. He had only visited once before, when Alina had first moved in. Alina was three years younger than Brian, and their parents had been nervous when she had moved into the city at the ripe age of 21. Alina, however, had always been the more headstrong of the two, and Brian had no qualms whatsoever about her choice of address. If anyone even attempted to bother Alina, they would be the ones getting the bad end of the deal.

Brian passed the restaurant where they had celebrated Alina's 30th birthday. She had swallowed back three cosmopolitans in quick succession, and dragged Brian to karaoke. He had been the only guy there amongst all Alina's girlfriends, and he had had nothing worthwhile to say to them. He had attempted to flirt with one of her coworkers, but all he managed to squeak out was, "so you work Alina?" He had forgotten the preposition "with".

Brian looked away from the restaurant, shame crawling up his spine. This was why he had only visited Alina's apartment once in the nine years she had lived there. He could shape all manner of words into eloquent sentences in his writing, but when he was face to face with another person, it was like his brain seized up. Charles had suggested Brian write a script after his first interview went so poorly. He had botched the interviewer's name twice, and had managed to tongue tie his way through the summary of his first novel in such a way that the reporter wrote about it as being a "mystery".

So Brian preferred to speak to Alina just by herself, in the comfort of his own home. Anytime he went to her apartment, she always had a gaggle of gal friends around, just waiting to ask him if he had "worked anyone lately".

Alina was waiting for him outside the café. It looked nice enough. There were two big picture windows and an old-fashioned hanging wooden sign.

"Hey," he said, giving his sister a quick hug.

"Hey hey, Mr. Novelist. I want to hear all about this new thing that you're writing." Alina opened the door and ushered Brian inside.

The inside was cozy. There was a mess of tables and mismatched chairs, with distressed teal oak-paneled walls. Antique tea sets sat on the tables. None of the cups fit the saucers, but Brian loved it. There was something old-world and charming about the place. It even smelled friendly, like cinnamon and nutmeg.

"I'll tell you, I'll tell you, don't worry. But I want to hear about your job, first. Mom says it's something big."

Alina rolled her eyes. "Of course she does," she said. She stopped at the host stand. "Two for breakfast please."