Beyond

Chapter One

You're never really ready for it, I guess. You never really think it will happen to you. But, here I am standing on the precipice of life and something . . . other. Something dark and bone crushing. The weight pressing on my chest until I can't breathe. I've been here before . . .

too many times before . . .

My fingers work idly peeling away the brown cardboard wrapping around my paper coffee cup. The heat warms my cold fingers as they brush against the cardboard. Little rectangles of morning light casts shadows across the scarred wooden table. The street outside the café window is empty; it being too early on a Sunday morning for people to be out roaming the city.

It's peaceful. The slight solitude that comes from being out in the world at a time when few others are. You're alone, but there's the illusion that you are a functioning human being. You can pretend that the sight of another person doesn't make your skin crawl . . . like the very sound of a person's voice doesn't relentlessly pound inside your head like a migraine . . ..

It's not that I hate people.

It's not even that I don't have any friends. I have a few friends. Fewer than ten, but more than one. Like DeAndré, the barista, who is my most favorite human being. I met him a year back when I started my ritual of sitting in the café every Sunday morning.

He's amazingly easy to talk to but doesn't push which is what I like about him. He's my best guy for sure. It's hard not to feel happy when I'm around him. But sometimes, the sun struggles to peek through the storm clouds. He tries, though, and I love him for it.

I don't know when I became like this

worried

depressed

obsessed with putting myself down

I don't think there is one singular moment in my life that dropped me down this hole, desperate to claw my way out. It was many tiny moments clustered together like dimly lit stars making up constellations scattered across my sky. Like so many scars hidden beneath the surface, invisible when the sky is washed with sunlight.

The tiny gold bell above the door chimes as the door is pushed open. My eyes flick up at the sound on instinct. I can't help it. I'm a curious person. Continuing to fiddle with the cardboard sleeve around my cup, I watch the man as he walks up to DeAndré who is standing behind the counter with a ridiculous, service industry smile. It's a rare sight, the spread of pearly whites stretching across his face, that he only reserves for special occasions and me.

That can only mean one thing . . .

The man takes his sunglasses off and tucks them into the collar of his V-neck t-shirt as he orders his coffee. DeAndré's voice is theatrical as he talks to his customer. He's laying it on thick. He calls it the Black Widow because men are done for when they hear his voice. It's his siren song, he told me once. It lures them in before they know what hit them. The man laughs at something he says and it's like music. Like a mix of Nat King Cole and Harry Connick Jr. All sultry silk. I need to hear more of it, I decide. It softens the incessant thumping in my head and for the first time this morning, I stop playing with the cup in my hand.

The man moves to the end of the bar to wait for his order. He glances around the café, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, when his eyes stop on me. He offers a polite smile and I'm struck by the color of his eyes. A swirl of blue and gray like the ocean under a blanket of storm clouds. Those eyes are powered by gravity.

He runs a hand through his hair and I drop my eyes to the table suddenly incredibly interested in the Y shaped scratch on the surface. I risk a side glance at him. DeAndré hands him his coffee and watches him walk away, the cold air rushing in as he leaves the café. My eyes follow him out the window until he disappears from out of my line of sight.