Law of Dreams

1

I met Law on a day like all the other days. I noticed him first because he was young, and second because his eyes were the greenest I'd ever seen when he looked up to say—can you do me a soy cappuccino? Most of our customers wandered here from Red Nest Retirement Village down the road, so Law stuck out like a straight, long stem in a garden of wilted flowers.

He appeared in the same spot by the window every Monday and Thursday and looked from his laptop to the street, laptop to street, laptop to street—like there was endless inspiration in the bitumen and boutique clothing stores and sporadic clumps of passersby. I couldn't see what he saw.

Could you do me a soy cappuccino?—turned to—just a soy cappuccino—which became—the usual. I still asked—soy? Even though I knew the answer. I wanted to ask what was on his screen, and what was so fascinating about that spot by the window, but I never did.

It was a Thursday morning in April when the incident occurred. There were a few oldies in the café and then there was Law, sitting pensively in the place I'd come to see him even when he wasn't there.

I was tipping froth into a latte, constructing the perfect tulip, when I saw Law press away from his table. My eyes shot back down to the latte as he passed me on his way to the men's room. His laptop was closed and I wondered if it showed that he trusted me, leaving it unattended.

I tipped the metal tin and the tulip flicked into a perfect line. Coffees were an art. I told Mike and Belle almost every time we caught up, but usually it was followed by laughter, like I was only joking. But I wasn't. It took me months to nail that damn tulip. I'd like to see them try. I'd even suggested it, a few times, but they would only laugh more and say something like—we'll leave that to you—which had smoke spilling out of every crack in me, smoke only I could see.

Mike and Belle owned their own gym. I knew Belle first from school, and then she introduced me to Mike after they became business partners. We hung out every Sunday at this bar in the city. They mostly shared stories from the gym; apparently coffees and old people weren't of equivalent interest.

I set the glass on a saucer with a spoon and moved around the counter to deliver it to Mrs Big Ears, who I'd so named for obvious reasons. As I went to lay it before her, I glanced at Law's table. The laptop was gone.

I caught a glimpse of a man passing the window outside, the café door clamping shut behind him. He had been in for lunch, he hadn't paid, and more notably—Law's laptop was under his arm.

I dropped the latte I was holding and it slopped over my hand, but I hardly felt it. I burst outside and charged at the laptop thief, who, to his and my detriment, couldn't move much faster than I could walk, which meant I couldn't stop myself from barrelling into him. We both crashed to the pavement. I took the brunt of the fall, and in hindsight that was probably for the best, as I'm sure if it had been him the impact would've shattered his rickety bones to death.

"What in God's name—" the man tried to roll away, grunting with the effort. My head throbbed and I couldn't draw air into my lungs.

"I—I'm sorry, sir—you—the laptop—" I pointed to it before dragging myself to sitting. My elbows stung but again I hardly felt it. My eyes were glued to Law's laptop, upside down nearby the man's feet. With wobbly knees, he pressed himself to standing. He would be no younger than seventy.

The café door flew open behind the man and into the street shot Law, looking frantically right to left, to me, still strewn inelegantly across the concrete.

"Althea!" The old man exclaimed to no one in particular. He rubbed his face. "Althea told me, she did! Althea told me to call the boys today, through the computer," he said. "She doesn't know how." He looked at me again and light came into his eyes. "Are you alright, love? There's blood on your arm."