Winnowing (A Novella)

The Cafe

The mahogany counter was scratched with lovers’ initials, watermark rings, and wood polish streaks. The barista poured over a dog-eared copy of Traditional Home and refused to look up when I entered, convinced I wasn’t going to stay long. He was right.

For the second time this week, I ignored the dust-covered sofa. Ever since the construction started next door, the owner had all but given up on the cafe and was now content to wait for the closure sign to finish printing. I made my way past the bookshelf and the Yamaha to the wall of colored Polaroids dominated by old newspaper clippings. I gingerly removed a torn picture and stared at the younger version of myself. My hair was shorter back then, cropped with careless nonchalance and covered by a purple hat Joanne had knitted the previous winter. Like any woman in their mid-twenties, I had stared at the camera with brazen boldness. An arm hooked comfortably around another, but the body of the attached man was missing from the picture.

My finger ran along the ripped edge, and I pursed my lips. I hadn’t intend on returning after Tuesday, but the invisible tape and the other half of the Polaroid film found their way inside my purse before I left the house this morning. During work, between endless phone calls and frustrated conversations with assistant managers, secretaries, and reporters, my thoughts had continuously darted to The Growing Tree. What if today was the day when the cafe would close for good? Ignoring the volumes of proposals I had yet to edit, I’d left my office and took the first cab here.

I sat down on the couch, ignored the settlement of dust, and pulled out the other picture. The tape hit the glass countertop a second later. Rip. The barista tore a page of the magazine and caught my eyes. He jutted his chin to the clock above my head—The Growing Tree closed promptly at sunset—and resumed ignoring me; he didn’t ask if I wanted a drink.

I frowned at the pictures. I should tape them back together. I should return the Polaroid back on the wall and wait for the cafe to be demolished. I shouldn’t have to doubt myself after all these years.  Were you hurt before? Leo had asked with concerned eyes, a shade of green so similar to Evan’s. I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t tell him I made myself sick waiting for a man who never came back.

“Are you coming again tomorrow?” came the drawl from behind the counter.

I picked up both pictures and tossed the tape back into my purse. I left without a word.

 ~*~

“You went back?” asked Joanne as she licked Chobani yogurt from a plastic spoon. She raised an eyebrow at my silence and crossed her legs with an exaggerated sigh. Dressed in gray sweats and a violet T-shirt, Joanne hadn't bothered with her hair and instead made do with a sloppy ponytail. Her face was free of makeup, and her nails were—I snuck a glance—newly manicured. She must have had another fight with Erik.

“Come. Sit. Talk. I’ve been staring at this book for an hour and it’s not helping,” said Joanne as she tossed aside the paperback.

Giving my roommate a wry smile, I shook my head. “No. I have enough on my mind without needing to hear about your drama.”

“It’s good for you to listen to my drama. It’ll help when you make it official with the dentist,” said Joanne matter-of-factly.

I knew it was a bad idea to tell her about Leo. I must have been really drunk that night, that or I was feeling more desperate than usual. I stared at my own nails. It’d been at least a couple of months since I last treated myself to a manicure. They were in a sad state. You have beautiful hands. Evan said the first time we slept together. His hair was curly back then—so short I cried and locked myself in the bathroom after he cut it.