Ambivalence - Draft

A sweet flavour fills the air, while rays of sunshine beautifully heat up the room. Hectic movements, clamouring orders, crowded people in front of the counter. A new batch of cinnamon buns just got pulled out of the oven.

It is the last weekend before Christmas, the freezing temperatures are slowly closing down the streets, as they turn traffic into a sleigh ride and people are rushing into the stores, to get their last presents and warm up their bodies from the cold.

All those people, living their own life, having their own thoughts, seeing the world in their own perspective, unique and unimaginable to anyone but themselves. Even the ones closest to us, never get to see our world, at least, not through the same eyes we do.

Yet, there is one thing, everyone in this room would agree on right now. This place is truly magical. Something out of this world. And not just in these busy times. I can't pinpoint it, but I noticed it, the moment I first set foot in here months ago.

I just love how this Café whispers to me, how it recharges my batteries and helps me clear my head. This place seems to slow down time and instantly lessens the pressure from everyday life, or whatever baggage it is, one might carry.

Outside of it, we act like robots, yet, we are no automated machines, made for such a fast-paced environment, that doesn’t allow space for deep breaths, relaxation, or stress relief. Therefore we can not sustain this “lifestyle” and if we don’t implement mechanisms to negate those destructive obligations, the system will break us.

Inside of it, everything feels like it comes to a full stop, allowing me to get out of my own body and assess the damage done, so I can adjust my workload, or precisely plan relaxation, which would have been overlooked otherwise and only been noticed, when I already would have been burnt out completely.

This café turned into a safe space for me, a fundamental pillar of my self-regulation process. Which is why every Friday, at 1 p.m. I am here. Just me, my hot chocolate with extra cream, the lotus biscoff cookie on the side and an apple turnover with vanilla ice cream. And honestly, this has got to be my most favourite part of my routine. EVER.

As always, my dessert is served on a rectangular shaped plate, which I meticulously place parallel to the edge of the table, a little eccentric and more on the right side of the table, since I’m right hand dominant and prefer to have it unoccupied, so I can use it for drinking, eating or fidgeting.

“Der Fuchsbau” is my favourite café for many reasons and the beautifully coloured and textured dishes, are one of them. “The den of a fox” is not just a beautiful name for such a small and comfortable space, but also quite fitting for the way it feels. Apart from the counter is a cozy corner seat - which I already call my own - that comes with the perfect view of the doorway, while hugging the sidewalk-facing wall. It is not actually mine, because I own it, but for I have made it mine. I like structure, routine, logic. And therefore this seat.

My body is used to the unevenly worn out cushions of the brown leather armchair, I probably spent hundreds of hours on. Every pinch of the hard springs, feels like a routined massage, supporting my lumbar spine and contradictorily the discomfort makes me relax and loosen up.

Due to the cork padding I placed months ago, the surface of the table is plane and prevents it from wobbling. Wobbling… a sensory nightmare. Nothing worse for an already overstimulated, exhausted body, than a table abruptly shifting, leading to a twitching movement, while your body involuntarily tries to regain its balance.

I take a sip of my hot chocolate, clean my lips with the cotton napkin, readjust the position of my cup, since it has to be perfectly spaced in arms reach, but not too close, so it would interfere with the elbow placement while resting and despite the average head weighing around 5 kgs, today it feels like the gravitational pull on my chin is way stronger, than it should be.

How heavy should ones head feel? I lift my head up, observing the other guests, taking in every detail, but apart from guesses and likely deductions, there is not a lot I can tell about anyone and suddenly I feel sonder.

The “Sonder” phenomenon has always fascinated me, but this is not about the complexity of life, or the fact that everyone has a complex consciousness, just like me. What keeps me thinking is, how those “hidden” advantages and mechanisms like “playing a role”, could profit someones life. Well, to be more precise: how it could manipulate others, for ones profit. And I ponder, to what degree those people around me utilise that unawareness, since I can't look into their heads.

Most likely I am overthinking again and no one is actually taking advantage of me, or anyone else, because all I see when looking around, are people not paying attention to anything that is going on around them, but only to what they deem worthy.

Honestly, I doubt many people have that awareness to begin with, but everyone around me seems to be completely distracted, not just occupied with their own thoughts, but fully invested in whatever will be going on in the next couple days.

I am still in the middle of my rant, when out of nowhere, a loud voice appears, disrupting all the murmurs and chatter, completely taking over the presence. Everything gets silent.

“Excuse me”, says a deep and confident voice, coming from the doorway.

“I’m sorry to bother you guys, but it seems like I hit someone's car, while trying to park mine”, the guy on the opposite side of the room takes some time to breathe and strictly scans the café.

“So could the owner of that red SUV please come forward, so we can exchange details?”, he finishes his request.

How casually he just stood in the centre of attention. A charismatic, clean shaved, 6 foot 2 guy, well dressed in a long brown coat, barely reaching his knees, grey baggy jeans and a black button-up shirt.

A long, knitted scarf in a dark red tone, wraps twice around his neck, one side ending at his lower ribs, while the other one only reaches his sternum.

He has rather short but curly hair, cut on the sides, like he visits his barber at least twice a month and the rings on his hands match the piercings on his face and ears.

If you look close enough you can even see some ink creeping up under the seam of his coat, hugging his cervical spine and hiding under the gently placed scarf.

He is eye-catching, he is remarkable, he is… the complete opposite of me.

Not that I don’t like my appearance, or would change anything about myself, but - him and I? - we really are nothing alike.

I am the kind of guy you most likely would call average, if you’d ever lay eyes on me. Neither short nor tall, neither big nor small. I am just average, at least if you don’t know me. My biggest strength by far is being able to hide in plain sight.

Always being the one getting underestimated, is the one advantage I can rely on, whenever I face uneven odds, which, I frankly do a lot. But knowing I can surprise anyone, by catching them completely off guard, is exactly how I handle these type of situations.

Nowadays, they call that a sleeper build, which, in context, describes a guy that looks skinny in regular clothes, but if he takes off his shirt, you can see clearly that he is buff and strong. Completely jacked, veiny arms, big muscles and obviously much stronger, than your first impression would have allowed.

Even though that metaphor is made to apply on ones physique, it also works speaking about the rest of me. I know this isn’t the British way of describing yourself, yet its true.

And in the few moments where I am not picking on myself, overanalysing and overthinking what I have said, done or thought, or when I am trying to figure out, what other people want from me, since I notice those slight changes in their behaviour, where there forms an imbalance and their words don’t match, what their body tells me, I also can be confident and proud of myself.

I love how my mind works and at the same time I hate how my mind works. And nevertheless the discrepancies between my body language and my inner voice is sometimes astonishing.

It is not that I am wearing a mask, well, I do like wearing masks, but this was me speaking figuratively, as most people only get to see a shallow version of me, where I am not letting them take an authentic view inside my world.

I am a yapper at heart, yet a lot of people think I barely speak. My inner monologue is vivid, never taking a rest, always going in circles, covering and processing not only what is directed at me, but also what is unseen by most.

High walls have been built around me, putting a toll on my social circle and the connections I allow. But experience is a mean instructor and I have felt too much agony and sorrow to trust easily.

Therefore being seen for who I am is something I don’t feel comfortable with, that's why I enjoy hiding in plain sight, right where the action takes place, yet don’t get any attention, allowing me to study first and approach only those, who have proven to me, that they are worthy to be trusted.

So looking at him and seeing all of those differences between us… I am lost for words.

It leaves me speechless, not just the fact, that people like this exist, but also the way he is bathing in all that attention, enjoying every single glance the people around him throw his way.

And when I say it turned silent, I mean it. Not a single person even dared to breathe. And what is he doing? He is marinading himself in all those stares and the way he knows people admire him, as he is a tall, handsome and confident man. Disgusting.

Despite his marvellous appearance, he is just a shallow man, with nothing, but outstanding, yet superficial attributes. So my gaze drops him quite quickly and drifts off, scanning the room, watching the people admiring this guy. Whereas most people still are locked on this eccentric character, I have already seen enough of him.

The corner I’m sitting at allows me to overlook the whole café and due to the glassy window pane, covering the whole façade of the café, I can see straight onto the broad sidewalk, where the crowds left paths in the snow, leading from one store to the next. I even imagine seeing the trails getting deeper and deeper, the further they reach into the shopping district, as everyones bags most likely accumulate weight.

Parallel to the sidewalk there are a dozen parking spots in a row, right next to the street. Only a couple of cars are still driving on the road, the rest look like they have been parked a couple days ago, as the snow didn’t come abruptly and most of those cars have been covered by a big layer of snow.

Nearby the entrance, there is a niche and since in relation to the other houses, the front of the café is set back, it allows, as a result of the protruding part of the neighbouring roof, to create an awesome shelter.

Ergo, a perfect spot to park a bike. My bike.

She is my everything, so, special, so beautiful and so memorable. Deserving of the best parking spot there is. And apparently, I am not the only one interested in my bike, as this douche stopped right in front of her and keeps molesting her, staring all over my beauty, standing way too close for my comfort.

My pupils dilate instantly, I can sense my blood pressure rise, my heart vigorously knocking on my rib cage, screaming to be let out of my chest.

Not losing sight of him, I pull out some banknotes, place 20 euros under my drink, grab my jacket and as I head to the door, I take off my baseball hat, turning it backwards as this disrespectful idiot seems to be actually crossing the line.

In my mind, the question keeps repeating itself. He is not really trying to touch her, is he?!

My heart rate is spiking, my fists clenched together, as I push open the two way door, straight up rush towards my bike and just as I pass the corner of the café, I can see his fingers hovering over the polished, black fuel tank.

I wanted to increase my pace, but the soft, snowy underground makes me walk like a penguin, forcing me to slow down a little, or my feet would probably completely lose traction.

My body stiffens, due to the disrespect he is going to commit, making it even harder to get to him fast enough and as I am approaching him, my shadow in his periphery, warns him about my approach, making him turn towards me, before I can reach him, but yet, too late.

*Thomp* A discomforting sound resonates, as I head-butt him with all of the momentum I could accumulate, while waddling across this icy surface. His body drops to the ground.

“What the hell is wrong…”, he starts mumbling, his face tensed up, probably filled with pain as he stays kneeling on the ground, he keeps his hand covering his temple, obviously dizzy from the impact.

But I cut him off again, my eyes not leaving his sight. “There are two things in life you should never touch: A bikers girl. And his motorcycle.”