Married Perfectly

A young man finds unexpected love at a local cafe.

     We decided to meet Jay at a local caf� that we had never been to before for �jazz night�. Carney heard from a student in his Spanish class that it was held every Thursday at nine p.m. Besides sitting around our cramped apartment and poking fun at lame commercials and eating pizza, we didn�t have a whole lot planned for the evening. So Carney and I pulled ourselves together and hit the streets.
When we rolled into town, Main Street was a bustling mess of college kids stumbling out of restaurants and fumbling right into bars, preparing for embarrassing, yet photo-worthy, occasions. We eventually found the caf� neatly tucked in between a towering bank building and a movie theatre modest in size. From the outside on this particular night, the large windows of the cafe were masked by condensation, and you could barely make out the growing population that lived inside.
     I was dropped off at the entrance while Carney pulled out to find a spot to park in the adjacent lot. I made my way past several individuals outside who were smoking and trading stories. It was early enough in the evening, probably around a quarter past eight. Carney�s classmate had warned us that the place typically filled up like a balloon as the night progressed, so we made an effort to be punctual and reserve a table and three chairs. I walked in and quickly came to a halt after setting foot inside, searching for potential locations where we could have a favorable view of the jazz trio that was scheduled to play. It seemed a nice, orderly and well-maintained place, where people could relax, read, talk, listen to music, and enjoy each others� company and a variety of hot or cold beverages. Most of the tables lined around the four walls of the room were taken, and the big table laid out in front of me in the middle of the room, made of porous dark wood and decorated with votives, was circumscribed by several patrons. Behind this mammoth piece of furniture in the back of the room, members of the jazz trio were in the process of setting up their equipment.
     I eventually spotted a table set for three to my right, between the entrance and the coffee and wine bar, but behind a large white pillar. It wasn�t the most ideal arrangement, but we would have to make do. I walked over, dodging a mob of people that were returning from the bar. As I approached the table, I made eyes with a girl sitting on a padded bench by the front windows who had her feet casually resting on one of the chairs. She was a young girl, with short black hair, and despite the burgeoning tumult of the crowd in the cafe, she was completely focused, with undivided attention, on whatever she was doing with her laptop.
I leaned in over the table.
�Excuse me?� I asked. No reaction. I spoke louder to compete with the din of the inside.
�Excuse me? Do you mind if I take these seats?�
Surprised, she raised her eyes from the screen.
�Oh yeah, sure.� She corrected her posture and removed her feet from the chair.
�Thank you,� I replied.
Sliding one of the chairs from underneath the table, I unzipped my coat and placed it on the back. I turned around and quickly scanned the shop to see if Carney had made it in yet. He hadn�t. I decided to go get a drink.
     As I was returning from the bar with a steaming mug of some tea with a strange oriental name I couldn�t pronounce, I noticed Carney had finally entered. Between a group of college students, I silently motioned to the table I selected. He nodded in recognition and then weaved his way through the crowd to get in line to buy a drink. I reached our table, sat down, and began to look around. Over a sea of heads, I noticed that the interior walls of the room alternated, between refurbished brick and tan-colored plaster. It felt warm, and I took slow draws of the tea from my mug. It tasted sweet at first, but rich and bitter after. I scalded the very tip of my tongue.
     Only two baristas manned their stations, one at the register and one working the wine bar. I did not notice her right then. She must have been hiding behind the storage shelves, re-stocking some products.
     Honestly, if I had to say anything, I would say that it is illegal to look this dashing, this elegant. To harness a sophisticated flair, whether intentional or not, was indeed her business. It was an old beauty bestowed on a young girl. Like Hepburn, or Bergman, she was classy, always keeping her composure amidst the hubbub of the patrons in the caf�. Her skin was as creamy-white as the sugar she continuously poured into glass containers for table-top use, and her eyes, a roasted hazel color that could only be complimented by the pastel palette of the chic interior decor of the house. She was of small stature, and had a plump waist, which was nice to look at and functional for her own sake. It helped to hold her black apron, cheerfully dashed with patches of flour, in place.
     Carney and Jay both reached the table nearly at the same time, Carney placing his Italian coffee on the table and Jay, who recently arrived, his coat on his chair.
�Hey guys, how are ya?�
�Just fine, just fine,� Carney responded. I gave some erratic motion of my head in agreement.
Carney continued, �So I guess you found your way o.k. then huh?�
Jay answered, �Oh yea, I got a little turned around right here on Main Street, but I found it.�
Not looking at us but around questioningly, he continued, �Hey, I heard this place has some great house wine. I think I am going to sample some.� He made his way over to the line that now stretched half-way around the room.
     Carney and I took time to peruse the array of day-old magazines and newspapers on the table before us, while Jay went to the bar to order some wine. I preferred the arts and entertainment section of the papers and discovered an interesting article in one paper about an old man who lived in up-state New York. He had just had his ninety-sixth birthday. His wife had passed some ten, fifteen years ago, but they had shared a lasting marriage of sixty-six years together. Since his wife passed, he had filled his time with a hobby he had enjoyed since his early teens, painting. Now, some of his most precious illustrations were up for auction, including scenes of old water mills and oak barrels that eventually made their way as decals on soda bottles produced by local companies up there. Sixty-six years. That duration is hard to come by these days.
     Jay came back with a glass half-full of red wine, shaking his head. I knew he had something to say.
�She�s nice, but she doesn�t smile.�
I knew exactly who he was referring to. Hepburn. Bergman. Nonetheless, I played along.
�Who?� I asked.
�The girl, the girl behind the counter,� he answered. �She didn�t look very happy. Tell me you saw her?�
�Oh yea. She is something else, right?� I responded jokingly.
     I thought to myself, �she doesn�t have to smile, when she looks that good�. I feared that if something did amuse her in any way, or she received a comment from somebody that engendered the least bit of reaction, perhaps a meager smirk, every man in that room would have been hypnotized by this one. This incredible specimen of a female. I assume she realized how stunning she was, but if she didn�t, I was sure as hell not going to be the one to inform her. I could have looked at her all night. I did look at her all night. I just admired her. She was sterling.
     The house lights dimmed, and the trio was getting ready to jam. They first broke in with an original composition that the pianist had written. I had purchased their album about four months back so I was familiar with the first piece they played. Over wine, coffee, and beer, everybody in the caf� continued to talk softly now that the music began.
     After a few songs, Carney bid Jay and I farewell. I told him I would meet him back at the house later. Jay and I stayed back and enjoyed how the night was unfolding, music and all. He finished his glass of red, and I got up to get something else, a root beer, when the trio was resting during their ten minute break. The line to the counter had thinned out. Everybody, for the most part, was sitting down. I was able to place my order in no time, but stumbled when I did. When I reached the counter, it was her.
�Hi.�
�Hello.�
�What can I get for you?�
�I will take one of those root beers,� I answered, pointing to the beverages enclosed in a bulky refrigerator behind her. She gently pushed the glass door aside, and then looked back at me with a blank stare. I felt awkward.
�Yea. Yea one of those, to the far left.�
She looked to the drinks again and saw what I wanted. She grabbed one bottle and the others behind it slid down and produced an almost inaudible clink. She placed it on the counter in front of me and took her time finding how much it cost with the aid of a little price-crib sheet posted on the face of the register. Her hair was parted down the middle, and her forehead glistened in the light cast from two tiny spotlights hanging from the ceiling over the bar. �She must be new� I thought to myself. As she scanned the price list, her finger finally came to a particular item and stopped.
�Two, seventy-five please.�
I could not even look her in the eye during the whole transaction. I gave her five dollars, and after receiving my change, I thanked her and retreated from the counter like a wounded puppy.
The trio was back from breaking, and they began their second set. The house lights were lowered again. I glanced over to the bar and she was not there anymore. She must have gone in the back for something. Jay, who was bobbing his head up and down with the beat, was concerned that I was not doing the same.
�What are you looking at man?�
�What? Oh nothing. That girl that served you earlier just served me. She�s crazy good-looking.�
�No s**t, I told you.�
He lifted his empty glass of wine and appeared satisfied.
�That was pretty tasty for a house vino. Alright man, I gotta split. Good times tonight, good times.�
�Oh, yea definitely. Hey call me tomorrow if you want to go to the mall. We�ll figure something out.�
�Will do,� he said. He got up to put his wine glass back on the bar and came back to shake hands with me and say goodnight. I decided to stick around for a little while longer myself. He left in the middle of the second set.
     The jazz was good. I was able to move up closer to the trio, to a table opposite the bar counter, now that it was later and many patrons had left the caf�. They played well into the evening. My calf muscles and ankle bones were sore from all the tapping I had been doing with my feet. That�s what music does to you when you truly let it in. It just takes hold of you, and rides around in your soul. It was the perfect type of jazz to accent the crowd, the atmosphere. Or maybe it was the crowd and the atmosphere that accented the music. I couldn�t tell. They married so perfectly.
     During the last set, I got tired. I moved on to nurse a bottle of sparkling water that I purchased from a gentleman working the counter. When you listen to jazz, you go to other places. My eyes hit the side of the tom, then the bottom of the bass drum, then the floor, and they rested there for a moment as my mind wandered. I could tell she was the kind of girl that you could lie in bed with, facing her, and surveying and discussing the day�s events while kissing that hollow formed between her shoulder blade and her collar bone. That was always my favorite spot. And after a few hours of lying languidly, we would walk downstairs into the kitchen of our old, weathered brownstone somewhere in Boston and have cereal for dinner. We were still fairly young, and didn�t know a whole lot about the world, but it felt good to live in Boston, the place where I grew up. She didn�t grow up there. She grew up...where did she grow up?
     I dragged my eyes up the front of the counter and found her sitting in the back, propped up near a collection of sullied coffee urns. From her vacuous expression, her mind too seemed to be wandering, exhausted at the sight of a practically emptied caf�, with all its recently occupied tables and subsequent cleaning that would have to take place in order to open for the early morning again. It was a long night for her. The time almost neared midnight. They seemed like a good lot though, the employees who worked there. They would get it done; clean that shop until you wouldn�t even realize such a crowd was even there.
     The jazz band was finishing up, playing their last selection of the night, a take on the Beatles� �Eleanor Rigby�. I, along with a few other patrons who remained to converse with members of the band and other friends, gradually made our way to the front entrance. The caf� had a dreadful silent quality now. I had the empty bottle of sparkling water in my hand. I needed to find a place to pitch it. As I was looking for a barrel, I noticed she was behind the counter now, behind the register, removing some cash from the box. She was great. All evening the thought had crossed my mind. What if, at the end of the night, I managed to get her attention somehow and thanked her for being there? Not as a pick-up line, but more as just an ingenuous demonstration of my gratitude, a way of helping me know that there is still hope with girls like her. The thought crossed my mind several times, but was never as adventurous as to make its way down into my mouth and out through my lips.
�Have a good one.�
�Huh?� She was talking to me.
�I said have a good night.�
�Oh yea you too. Hey, thank you for�uh�serving me. That was a good brew.�
She looked down at the ground, smiled, and then looked back up. �Your welcome. I think it is my favorite kind. We get it shipped here from Utica.�
I returned the smile. �It was great.�
     I exited the caf� with the water bottle still in my hand. It was so cold outside, and I was not prepared for such weather. It felt good though; the brisk, frigid air against my exposed skin. I was glad I came.