Cafe Friday #2
Back again with a bit of Fiction...
It had been a few of weeks since I'd seen the living enigma in the cafe, the one who left the poem tucked in the cup handle. His presence and memory hung there in the back of my mind, idle yet ever present. But since sightings of real ones are rare these days, I tried as best I could to not focus on an unreality.
On a Friday after work, instead of cooking pasta and finding a movie on Netflix, I decided to join my chipper roommate at her gallery function. The company where she interns sponsored an exhibition from some big time artist from elsewhere. I'm usually not enthused about anything corporate sponsored, the hobnobbery of it all, but I wanted to support Emmi. Plus, usually at these functions there are fancy snacks and free wine, win win. I didn't want to embarrass her with my usual hippie attire, so I wore my black maxi dress with some funky silver jewelry, and pinned my locs up classy like. "You look great!", she chirped, half pleased and half relieved.
There were already quite a few people there when we arrived, mingling and looking at art, trying to say phrases that made them sound both knowledgeable and hip. I quickly decided to hide my disdain behind a very large glass of Pinot Noir, and drifted away from Emmi before she introduced me to anyone from her department. It was nice for a moment to quietly gaze at each piece, exploring what the artist might have been inspired by. Suddenly, I am approached by two expensive suits without ties. "Hey, aren't you one of the barista's at Tango's?", the older one blurts out. I nod and smile politely, hoping that this might shorten their unsolicited greeting. The taller one, nodding like a bobble head doll say "Yeah, I thought I'd seen you before! Hello! So you're an art lover, huh? Well that is awesome!". For the next few minutes of eternity "Chad" and "Albert" query me about the cafe and the original owner, our secret salad dressing recipe and my stock portfolio. I tried to send mental SOS messages to my dear friend, but she was across the room somewhere, laughing and looking fabulous. Just then, from behind I hear a voice say "There you are darling. Sorry I was running late.", followed by a warm hand on the shoulder and a peck on the forehead.
It was him, the enigma, like he had manifested in the flesh from thin air, specifically to rescue me. I wanted to check my totem to see if I was dreaming but I was not. By the time my mind caught up with reality, he had shaken their hands, kindly excused us and whisked me away to the fondue station in the corner.
"You alright?", he asks.
"You smell amazing.", I blurt out, "When did you get here, how did you get here?"
"I live in the neighborhood and the curator is a friend of mine. Whenever the gallery has the good grub he lets me know, and I swoop in like a thief in the night. I wasn't expecting such a pleasant surprise."
"I see (nervous chuckle), well, thank you for rescuing me."
"My pleasure."
I did my best to keep my lips in check at that moment, to not drown him with a thousand questions or tell him the depth of feeling I had for someone I have met exactly twice. So I contented myself with walking with him around the gallery, commenting about the art (laughing at some of it), and we both were saved from interacting with a crowd full of corporate. At the end of the evening, he gave me his card.
"Your name is Joah?"
"Joah Dade Williams, photographer extraordinaire, soccer champ and world traveler.", he says with a toothy grin.
"I'm Truth, Truth Adams. Barista, writer, wanna be chef."
We shake hands and say reluctant goodbyes. I feel like have met him for a purpose. For just what purpose, I am not quite sure.
It had been a few of weeks since I'd seen the living enigma in the cafe, the one who left the poem tucked in the cup handle. His presence and memory hung there in the back of my mind, idle yet ever present. But since sightings of real ones are rare these days, I tried as best I could to not focus on an unreality.
On a Friday after work, instead of cooking pasta and finding a movie on Netflix, I decided to join my chipper roommate at her gallery function. The company where she interns sponsored an exhibition from some big time artist from elsewhere. I'm usually not enthused about anything corporate sponsored, the hobnobbery of it all, but I wanted to support Emmi. Plus, usually at these functions there are fancy snacks and free wine, win win. I didn't want to embarrass her with my usual hippie attire, so I wore my black maxi dress with some funky silver jewelry, and pinned my locs up classy like. "You look great!", she chirped, half pleased and half relieved.
There were already quite a few people there when we arrived, mingling and looking at art, trying to say phrases that made them sound both knowledgeable and hip. I quickly decided to hide my disdain behind a very large glass of Pinot Noir, and drifted away from Emmi before she introduced me to anyone from her department. It was nice for a moment to quietly gaze at each piece, exploring what the artist might have been inspired by. Suddenly, I am approached by two expensive suits without ties. "Hey, aren't you one of the barista's at Tango's?", the older one blurts out. I nod and smile politely, hoping that this might shorten their unsolicited greeting. The taller one, nodding like a bobble head doll say "Yeah, I thought I'd seen you before! Hello! So you're an art lover, huh? Well that is awesome!". For the next few minutes of eternity "Chad" and "Albert" query me about the cafe and the original owner, our secret salad dressing recipe and my stock portfolio. I tried to send mental SOS messages to my dear friend, but she was across the room somewhere, laughing and looking fabulous. Just then, from behind I hear a voice say "There you are darling. Sorry I was running late.", followed by a warm hand on the shoulder and a peck on the forehead.
It was him, the enigma, like he had manifested in the flesh from thin air, specifically to rescue me. I wanted to check my totem to see if I was dreaming but I was not. By the time my mind caught up with reality, he had shaken their hands, kindly excused us and whisked me away to the fondue station in the corner.
"You alright?", he asks.
"You smell amazing.", I blurt out, "When did you get here, how did you get here?"
"I live in the neighborhood and the curator is a friend of mine. Whenever the gallery has the good grub he lets me know, and I swoop in like a thief in the night. I wasn't expecting such a pleasant surprise."
"I see (nervous chuckle), well, thank you for rescuing me."
"My pleasure."
I did my best to keep my lips in check at that moment, to not drown him with a thousand questions or tell him the depth of feeling I had for someone I have met exactly twice. So I contented myself with walking with him around the gallery, commenting about the art (laughing at some of it), and we both were saved from interacting with a crowd full of corporate. At the end of the evening, he gave me his card.
"Your name is Joah?"
"Joah Dade Williams, photographer extraordinaire, soccer champ and world traveler.", he says with a toothy grin.
"I'm Truth, Truth Adams. Barista, writer, wanna be chef."
We shake hands and say reluctant goodbyes. I feel like have met him for a purpose. For just what purpose, I am not quite sure.
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