Sunday 26 April 2009

Way down in front.

Please don't be ashamed whether you win or lose.
I just want you to know that I'm proud of you.
Don't be afraid when your fight is through.
I just need you to know that I'm here with you.
An attempt for some routine brought us back to our favorite coffeehouse early this afternoon, an unheated little affair with big spotless windows looking out onto the endless traffic outside, sidewalk freshly scrubbed, bicycles locked in a stand right outside the door and Ben's truck close to the curb, meter paid for two hours of grounds and people-watching and skipping over subjects we needed to be discussing but weren't, because the comfort of those latticed chairs and warm mugs kept full, discarded plates of apple pie and chocolate cake between us, meant that maybe every waking moment doesn't have to be progress or effort.

Ben tapped his fingers along with Interpol over the sound system and I watched him watch people. I watched his eyes linger on a girl rummaging through her messenger bag for her softly ringing phone. Watched him absently try to twirl a ring around his finger that is lately snug. Watched him check his phone, ignoring call after call in favor of watching me without watching me at all.

I had decided I hate Interpol and I wish they would play something else but at the same time where else can you sit for hours without being rushed out or drowned out? Where else can you sit in public in broad daylight and yet still persist in a bubble, ignored by everyone who passes by? Where else do you work out your shit but a place that you've had a standing date for years?

It's been months since we've had one of our coffee dates. Months since he's reached across the scarred and battered table to take my hand and tell me I'm beautiful. Months since we've have a coffee-breath kiss and a cake aftertaste chasing it down our throats with the gritty air of this winterwashed city, blind to the agony with which we've taken every step thus far.

Ben laughs and rubs his face. A haircut and a straight-razor shave this morning at the barber shop where all the old men in the neighborhood go makes him feel familiar, organized, together. I smile at the curl in the front that defies whatever he does to it, every single day. Ben has stick-straight hair, save for this one little piece that flips the wrong way.

You hate the music, don't you?

I don't come here for the music, Benjamin.

Oh, yeah? Why do you come here then?

They make great coffee.

That's it?

The cake is really good too.

And?

The people are varied. I like watching them.

Any other reason?

It reminds me of easier times.

Speaking of which, I need to ask you for a favor.

You don't have to ask, Benjamin.

This, I do.

What is it?

I've watched you stand behind people your whole life, princess. But right now I would really appreciate it if you would stand in front of me. Just for a little while. Could you? Could you do that for me?

There were no words for that. Just the habitual, inevitable flood.

You've watered down your coffee. Maybe we should go.

I nodded. And I left the coffee shop first, hand stretched behind my back, fingers laced with his. I don't think I have half as much courage as your everyday normal human being, but I could probably give this a shot.