Regression

On September twenty-ninth, the weather was brisk and chilly. Water droplets slid on the French door of the coffee shop, formed a dripping sound, gathered together, and landed softly on the ground, creating small puddles in front of the door. Outside, the pasture grass was richly green and reflected the daylight from red to violet. The drizzle lightened as the blushy sun appeared from the gray cotton cloud. The whole world rejuvenated! Crowds gathered on the street wearing casual outfits and boots or slippers, and the hawkers began their work, symbolizing the beginning of the day. The smell of the food filled the whole street. The sweetness of the rolled cookies and cinnamon, the sourness of the fresh lemons and oranges, and the fishy smell of the seafood. Some of the crowd sauntered on the street. Families bought food. Some of them were shrewd negotiators, as they bargained and argued incredibly with the hawkers. Some of them relaxed in the coffee shop.

I, an old man, wandered along inside the flowing crowd.

I was thin, and my skin was colorless, my arms marked by a lot of fused tiny holes—as if every step I took was dull. My broken pocket watch carried a depth as deep as my past recollections. Wearing a dark suit and gripping a black umbrella, I looked like I had just come back from a funeral. I walked slowly toward the coffee shop, where I often had breakfast or brunch. Inside the café, the greybeards relaxed on the chairs. One of them moved his hand to adjust the glass and slipped on the newspaper, eagerly looking for the latest news of the day. He eloquently discussed the news with his wife, I thought. His wife somehow listened silently. She just listened and her mouth didn’t open. Some greybeards hugged each other as if they had met a friend. Some of them relaxed while fingers moved up and down to get rid of the cigar ashes toward the ashtray. After passing the greybeards, I shuffled to the third table—the place untouched every morning. My fingers slid across the edges of the table, and I gently pulled out the chair in front of me, leaving it empty. I froze, my eyes crinkled at the corners. My lips moved upwards, curled into a faint smile. After a while, I sat down in my chair. A few whispers and chuckles echoed around me, yet I remained silent. Folding my umbrella, I shook off the droplets and set it aside. With my other hand, I adjusted my suit with care, as if I could control the time itself—let us be forever young. Finally, after a pause, I raised my hand to order.

“Hi, Sir. Is today the same as usual?” the waiter asked me.

“Yes,” I replied.

I ordered a glass of iced latte and two slices of chicken sandwiches. I placed my meal at the center of the table and sliced the sandwiches one by one, moving them to my plate. I asked for two straws and carefully placed them opposite each other in the iced latte. While I ate, I kept my faint smile and occasionally let out a joyful laugh, even though my expression and voice sounded bizarre and unnatural. I ate them. And I looked through the window. It was cold outside, and the mist covered the glass, so it was too blurred to see the contour. I squeezed my eyes and saw a young man buying a rose for a young woman at the florist on the side of the shop. He passed the rose to her, and she froze for a while, stiff with surprise. The scent was the fruity smell of the roses, like the sweet summer cherries. At that moment, the sky gradually turned leaden. The droplet fell. They rushed to the bus stop to take shelter, but their hands were inseparable; they made eye contact and laughed softly, their laughter echoing as they halted—it was like me, though, when I was young back then. After I finished breakfast, I rose from my chair and pushed the chair in front of me back in. I opened my umbrella and walked to the counter to pay the bill.

“Are you okay, sir?” the waitress asked.

“Yes, I am. But I feel my body getting more exhausted each day.”

“Alright then, please, take care of yourself,” the waitress replies after a brief hesitation.

When I wanted to walk toward the front door—just a few steps away from them—I saw they turned their body halfway away and faced me. The murmurs rose between them; actually, I couldn’t hear that clearly. But I thought they discussed my looks because the girl cupped her mouth and faced toward the waiter’s ear, and her eyes glanced at me. They were as young as twenty, and I used to be this age—a naive age—so I didn’t blame them.

The waitress turned her head toward my table. There was a slice of sandwich left on the large plate, and the iced latte remained half-finished. I couldn’t eat that much; however, I needed to buy it for her. So I walked toward the door. Just as I pushed the door and stepped out of the coffee shop, I headed back home to prepare to buy some household goods. Walking down the street, the school bus halted in front of the elementary school as I passed by. The adorable little kids wearing their slickers lined up one by one and walked across the road with the help of a security guard. As they bowed and smiled at the cars and motorcycles beside them to say, “Thank you for your wait!“, the adorable and innocent angels gave this polluted and chaotic world a sense of harmony. I smiled, and they looked at me too.

My phone vibrated in my pocket—a reminder message popped up: “6th dialysis and appointment check-up at 11:00 a.m.” My face did not reveal a trace of uneasiness, instead, the corners of my lips unconsciously formed a straight half-smile. I took a deep breath and walked toward the opposite road.