With careful steps, I sauntered entering the cafe. I knew it’s my usual one. I’ve felt it. A whim took over my head, grabbing me down the streets, and never let me go but here.
I know every corner in that small, warm, useless cafe. That bar on my right, that nasty bath which lay in the end of that tiny corridor resting in the back of the café, those lousy apple pies and cookies facing you behind the glassy buffet, trying so hard to be American, where’s the Fucken Joe standing (Joe is the owner of the place, and for sure his name is Youssef), that table with fixed leg which I prefer because it’s resting in lovely private corner where I am “blending” enough.
I headed to it before the eyes of Fucken Joe with his so-fucken-dangerous wincing. I knew that as well. I reached my spot and sat down. Aren’t me an American-wannabe myself?! Justice is in the air.
I gazed towards the waitress. I like her ass, and I couldn’t help it but peeking. She smiled in a way made me assure that she is used of such attitude from me. She was of that same type of woman-of-the people kind of thing, most probably she finished some kind of diploma for something isn’t needed and she know nothing about, originally from those districts behind the fancy façade facing the ocean, where they usually hide, killing each other, looking at those pretentious middle class who wanted to eat hamburgers and shag a fake blonde, tones of foundation and powder.
She might be smiling at me in hope she might lure me into some kind of a love story ending with her taking over my place and jumping some poor steps to be among the pretentious, or simply she’s being nice for giving her a good tip. Whatever that was, I know this place, and this place knows me.
How how? people know cafes, cities, groceries, hot shots and lousy losers and etc. by encountering.
This place is fake, me is fake, we know each other.
Yea. Sure. I must be a regular customer here then. The waitress came and called me by my name.
“Hey!” she cried, with her face glowing with her smile. “How are you?”
“Am OK!” I replied with a sudden cheerful grin.
“Where are your glasses, by the way?” She wondered.
I can see clearly and sharply. I don’t need glasses. I wandered my eyes through the place. I experienced them with a can standing on the furthest table to mine. I could see the writing on it. She turned around, gave a glimpse to whatever I was looking at, before looking back to me.
“anyway, forget it. You know what? You look better without them!” she said while her eyes were glinting, behind this stereotypical makeup, as an ideal vixen. She seems like she missed me, genuinely. “The usual?” She asked.
“Cappuccino?” I couldn’t but asking back carefully.
“Sure! You think I forgot or what?” she replied with a wider smile. “You are the one who’s fond of Caramel Cappuccino here.”
Yes. I am.
“Two weeks won’t make me forget what’s your usual!”
Two weeks; here’s another piece of information. I was absent for two weeks.
Where was I?
“In a small journey”, voice came from my back.
I turned around. That’s how I met him.
He was standing before me. Tall man. About forty-five year old, with sharp nose and sharp eye looks. He was wearing a pricey coat, holding his well-made gloves in his right hand. Suddenly, with his appearance, the place was completely out of place, who wears gloves in our city? His smile looked—in a flash—creepy.
“Hello”, he offered his enormous, huge hand to me. I picked it in an automatic manner. He shook my hand strongly, as the old manhood dictionaries would define. He saw a wondering look upon my eyes
“Aren’t you going to offer me a seat?” so he said smoothly.
Do I know that guy?!
His face looked familiar, but I just can’t remember him. It sounds very paradoxical to me; am recalling things I’ve never live. I know things I’ve never encountered, but with a forceful feeling that I’ve been here forever. So, why I can’t remember that man?
“Should I?” he pointed out to the empty chair before me. I was hesitated. However, I told myself:
“What am gonna lose?!”
“Sure” I said in a quite voice made me little astonished.
“Thank you” He murmured while taking his coat off and sitting down. He’s fast like a cat. He looked at me with his red face, rounded cheeks, which gives him a fair look of freshness and vigour. He looks like those guys, of the old Circassians decent, or French, or whatever, who you might think they are foreigners for a split second, those who usually feel higher than the other darker guys of the ordinary. He’s fast, Circassian like, and in good health. He called the waitress and ordered an espresso. So manly. Another American wannabe who is actually a European wannabe. Yankees, you know.
“so, sir, do we know each other?”
“What’s the use if we knew each other?! What’s the use if you know my name? or vice versa?!” He replied.
The waitress butted in the philosophical conversation by serving me the Cappuccino.
“Within your mug, your excellency!” She said.
I looked at the mug. I do adore Donald Duck. Good point here. The mug was stuffed with Donald’s pictures in various positions and deferent angles. Suddenly I felt so silly I prefer a mug can be used by 11 year old boy.
“Who doesn’t?” he said after she walked away.
“Doesn’t what?!” I didn’t get it.
“Love Donald Duck. Wake up Dear!” he stressed on the ”dear" word.
How’d he know about that?!!
His familiar features, and my confusion, made me passing that line when he replied on where was I. A strange feeling I can’t recognise was showering me then.
He kept silent.
I should go straight and tell him to leave my table as we do not know each other, so what’s the use of us sitting down together here?!!
I kept silent.