Handleless Doors

Three years ago, I was shared along my sibling the news of my father that we would be moving houses. Moreso, we would be moving districts. As guessed, it was a matter of financial instability, and I did not find myself questioning the announcement, which more seemed like a plea from the way he rubbed at his wrists in case my sister and I were to stand against the idea. I don't know why my father thought so, but he always betrayed a sort of caution in pushing certain buttons in our presence. My sister took the news harshly, and her thrown fit lasted a good deal until I managed to bring her back to her usual state. We would be leaving in a week, and she made sure to reach out to her friends and say her good-byes. I believe they both did so, herself and my father. I, on the other hand, vaguely considered the idea. Nobody would die; they would simply be fallen out of touch with–those I knew. The days passed by, and come Friday, two days before the official departure, I found myself recalling the idleness of my past decision. They sprang to my mind as if by magic, with no cause leading to their apparition: the first was Asamae, a once-close acquaintance of mine and captain of some volleyball team. I had met him at the start of my high school years. He was good and lively. I should see him. I spectated a good number of his plays, that was some time ago. The second was Layla, the butcherwoman on Clarence Street. I liked her. Her cuts were spectacular, and she inquired about me. The third one's name was Sama, the barista at the coffeehouse on Earl Street; an admirably devoted scholar who worked part-time in his endeavour to pay for future college fees. His ashen hair was always the first thing that left an impression, as it weirdly and beautifully suited him. He was born with it. 
 It was set. I would respectively visit Layla, then Sama, then Asamae.

It was a chilly Saturday of spring. The sky was split asunder; on one side, a camel light pierced certain spots of the clouds, causing rays of sunshine to spread across the grass like a veil of dormant holiness; on another side the grass remained dark and rustling as ominous winds blew through its greens. I was heading towards the former side, nothing on me but keys, a cell phone, and a five-dollar bill which I was saving for later on. 
 
I had arrived at the Clarence Charcuterie, discussed past memories with Layla, who stopped her overzealous butchering of a cow tongue when her eyes had crossed mine. She was genuinely sad, and I understood. Things would not be the same for either one of us, and I had said something along the lines of 'I can still come at anytime,' and that had been enough to restore some glow to her complexion, which darkened when I confessed the news. I said that I could not possibly forget her, my guide, my figure of wisdom, my . . . ah, well, one knows. She was content. Wanting not to intrude on the progress of her work (there were clients waiting for their share of meat), I had bid my farewell and taken my leave, hopefully in some manner of grace.

 There was a soft breeze about that made my hair flow and shroud my path. I pushed it back, dragging certain strands that irritated my forehead. The sensation would have bothered me, had my nostrils not caught the smell of vanilla and coffee emanating from the only place I was close to reaching. 
I pushed open the glass door, crossed a tiny vestibule of the same material, and made the bell above the second door chime as I entered. There were many smells now, not just that of French Vanillas, which still reigned in comforting pungency, but of various pastries, from doughnuts and cakes all the way to croissants and maple danoises. There were very few people, comically enough when compared to those at Clarence. A voice that had yet but to grow into adulthood called out an order of some sort. I need not have looked to recognize it (what more, I couldn't, since the man in front of me had a fascinatingly oblong head that blocked my view of the left-side counter). 'What in the actual hell,' I almost blurted aloud. But the line was quick: Sama had gone from pitiful clumsiness to maddening efficiency since he'd first started. At dawn, I used to devote my weekly studies on one of the counter stools, witnessing every now and then the entrance of a client with a high-end career rushing over the register and harrying a rookie Sama for a coffee and pastry. I found that stressful people easily stressed him. After that, he had long caught up with every kind of rush-hour worker, entertained himself like a kid on a swing at the sight of them, and never forgot to deliver a handsome smile which in turn, because of his youth, never failed to leave an impression of angelic goodness.
 I was next. Sama was placing the change in the money register, looked up for a fraction of a second, started his usual greeting speech, froze, then looked up once more, longer this time, struck in awe. It was a long time since he had not been caught off guard in the workplace, had not looked like he had no idea what he was doing, I would have felt guilty if some part of me wasn't somewhat amused at his face. Then, "Danei, take over," he said to a teenager who had just closed a grilling machine on a sandwich, and made his way around the counter with wide eyes. I could not repress a grin at the anticipation of a hug, and he practically collapsed into me. The blow felt good. Very good. "Is that really you?"
"You tell me," I said, still in his embrace.
We sat on a small table in a rather deserted corner of the place. Sama had left, whipped us up two coffee cups and returned in a flash. We talked a good deal, reminiscing about nothing and everything. 
 "College is good," he said happily. Of course it was, you studious man, I wanted to say. 
 "What are you going into for university?"
"Probably sports coaching," he pondered, "I seem to have what my supervisor calls 'motivational spirit.' What about you?"
"First year of university, English Literature. Biblical." Sama nodded.
 "We're seeing British. Jane Austen, but I manage," he said with that wide grin I was starting to remember. 
"Hey! you could help me!"
"Gladly," I said. 
And then, "Sama, I'm moving." His eyes froze, now fixated. I ought to have bitten my cheek at the way I so dumbly pressed the matter, but it had slipped out of my tongue like a cube of jello. There was a long moment of silence. At some point, Danei had called for Sama, but the latter didn't seem to have heard him. Danei soon gave up and found some way to circumvent whatever problem, if any, had required attention.
 "When?" he said, a graver air on his face.
"Tomorrow."
"Oh."
I interjected, "You know it barely means anything, right? We'll keep contact, after all we are non-identical twins," I mused. Just then, Sama laughed ruefully. People would constantly mistake us for siblings all through high school, and in the end we had simply surrendered to the lie, as we were close enough to feel at ease with the identification.
"Your hair is darker than mine," he pointed out, tilting his head, "but I think I still see it."
 "If you let it grow we could fool the whole lot," I said rebelliously. 
"I like the sound of that," his lips quivered upwards. 
Time flew, and it was only when Sama took notice of it on his watch that he went pale in seconds.
 "Damn it," he said, visibly disconcerted. "You should have come at night . . . less busy." I had not meant to overstay my welcome, but Sama smiled at me once again, grabbed his now-cold coffee and, before getting up, "Why don't I come over tonight? Help you pack."
 "We're all set," I said, "but I do like the idea."
"Or . . ." he drawled, "why don't you come back over in a couple hours? The place'll be completely ours and I can order you a meal, on the house! And then we can go someplace else."
I chuckled shyly. 
"Don't you have a curfew?" I teased.
"Hey, come on, now," he put a hand on his hip, "have I not grown?"
"Mentally, sure. Physically," I grotesquely contorted the left side of my lip, and, seeing the final product of a sarcastic reaction, Sama nudged my shoulder. "There is one more person I have to see," I admitted, but promised Sama my being plan-free afterwards. I gulped down my remains of lukewarm coffee, hugged him tight, surprised at the sudden giggle I emitted in doing so (which he returned with a boyish one of his own). "See you soon, big sis," he said. I didn't answer, only stayed with my arms wrapped over his shoulders. 
Freeing him from my grip at last, I pressed a hand on his shoulder and proceeded to exit the coffeehouse.