13.

“What should I get?”

“Um, coffee?” 

“I’m serious.” She pushed his shoulder. He had been telling her about this place since they met two weeks ago, but she had not slept over until last night. He slipped his arm around her; again, the up-rush of emotion, the one that usually lasted only until after the first kiss.

“I don’t about this stuff like you do,” she whispered.

His pulled her toward him. God he wanted to kiss her.

“All right, so,” he said, and stood her before the vertical chalkboard. “You’ve got regular coffee. Or you can get an Americano.”

“What is it?”

“It’s espresso, with hot water in it.”

“Ew,” she said.

He shook his head and steered her to the counter.  ”No no, no ew.”

“I don’t…” And then she was at the counter. 

“Good morning,” said May.

“She doesn’t know what she wants,” he said.

She smacked him on the chest. “Okay, forget it,” she said, and looked back to the chalkboard. “I am going to have… a latte.” She gave one nod to the girl behind the counter.

“Cool,” she the girl. “For here or to go?”

“We’ll stay today,” he said, standing just behind her, putting both hands on her waist. “You want something to eat?”

She leaned into him; again, the up-swell. “Mm hm.”

12.

“Are you going to tell him?”

Nonni focused on dabbing Danish crumbs with her finger. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Okay, this…” Laura paused. “That’s probably the worst answer you can come up with.”

Nonni concentrated on mashing the crumbs. If she looked her sister, she might cry.

“Hey,” said Laura, trying to get Nonni to look her in the eye. The younger girl resisted. “Nonni.”

Nonni looked up. “What?” 

“Oh, now you’re mad at me?’

“I’m not mad,” she said, sharp enough that the guy on line with the bike messenger bag quarter-turned away.

Laura shook her head. “You’re being incredibly childish.”

Nonni turned her profile to Laura and feigned looking at a painting of a bridge on the opposite wall. 

“Hello?” Laura said. Nonni was one of maybe two people in the world, their mother being the other, that could bring on irrational rage. Sometimes she dreamed she was slapping Nonni in the face.

“Nonni, listen to me.”

Nonni kept looking in the direction of the painting, but she did not see it, nor the woman in the baseball cap sitting beneath it, she was engaged instead in making her sister know she was being ignored. She continued to stare as Laura said, “Oh my god!” and got up, her knees bumping into Nonni’s, fine…

“How are you?” Laura asked. She was embracing a woman who’d come into the cafe, a tall woman wearing interesting brown boots and speaking to her sister in a French accent. The world shrank to a circle, a circle in which her sister and the French woman were laughing and touching each other’s hands, Nonni could see only this and feel hotly how she was not in it.

11. It was a very bad morning. Ella had known the day before how terrible Darren would act, and he had not let her down. He had behaved disgustingly from beginning to end, not greeting her guests as they arrived, wine bottles in hand and kissing hello in the vestibule. Darren had not bothered to look up from his laptop as he chewed a sandwich at the kitchen banquette. He had, as guests continued to arrive, walked past them talking on his cellphone about, “this event Ella is having.” Ella felt frazzled to the point of screeching; if anyone noticed, she had no idea, she smiled and told her guests, by all means, bring some chairs outside, and wine glasses, and might someone grab forks? It was as true that her home was beautiful, the food she laid out delightful, everyone seemed happy to be there, especially Ella when Darren left. That was the deal, he told her, “I am going to leave my own fucking house for this,” and he had. Those who took notice of the husband’s odd behavior saw color return to Ella’s face. And more than anyone had suspected, the event had been a triumph, it had filled attendees with hope, and as one said, “This is the sort of day you have only if you’ve lived an interesting life for twenty years.” Had Ella lived an interesting life? She had. Now it was a fresh hell every day, as it was last night, Darren returning home as the event was ending, his voice bright with hate, making comments no one else understood, they took him at word when he said, “You should stay a little longer and have some more wine!” Ella had felt hysteria re-inhabit her chest. There would, she knew, be a long night of fighting ahead, about the mess, about the number of bottles to be recycled, about the whiff of shit in the downstairs bathroom that Darren managed to stretch into a four-hour soliloquy that Ella knew had nothing to do with a party, but Darren’s evidently depthless hatred of her, and that she had the capacity, still, for happiness. It was 7:40. Her eyes felt abraded but there would be no sleeping. She would make coffee. One of the girls at the party had brought a gift of coffee beans. Ella would make coffee and drink it in the backyard where the night before there had been magic.

Ristretto Nicolai will close at 4pm on Memorial Day, so you can spend time with your ‘cue and in remembrance. Regular hours at Williams, until 6pm, and Beaumont, until 5.
Veterans, let us know of your service, coffee on us.
Thanking our vets today, including my uncle Allan x

10.

Matt looked at his phone. The battery had dislodged when Cassi threw it. Seemed to be working. He put it in the pocket of his cargo shorts, hoping she would not wake up and start in. She really had an amazing ability to do that, to fight over nothing.

The cafe was four blocks away. Matt walked, and thought he’d screwed up marrying Cassi. He’d loved her, and she had needed her green card, but it was seeming now like a rash decision. His father implied as much, when Matt brought Cassi home for a visit the year before.

“She’s a beautiful girl, Matt,” his father said, not adding the “but”. It was late summer, a peaceful time on the farm, the harvest in, foals and calves in the fields, the air soft and thick. “Is it that you need to, son?”

Matt told his dad no, it wasn’t that. But there had been pressure from Cassi, to help her, to be a helpful man. And so Matt had been, and was being, and this helpfulness was being repaid by her staying out at night, and accusing him of what she herself was likely doing.

Do I care? Matt asked himself as he came to the cafe. There was a little girl holding a star-wand twirling by the register as the barista with the red hair handed the girl’s mother change.

“Hi,” the barista said. She held out a plate to Matt. On it was a swirled Danish, cut into pieces. “Try this. The baker brought samples.”

Matt took a piece. It tasted like maple and butter and crunchy sugar. He nodded at the barista as he chewed.

“Good, right?” she said, and handed him a paper cup for his coffee. He pumped it himself. As he went for cream, he noticed the woman in the baseball cap, no eyelashes.

Yum!

9.

First, grip the door handle. It does not matter (tell yourself) if your thumb in on top or beneath the handle. Pull. Okay. Okay.

Pause on threshold. Look engaged. There are flyers to the left, dance performances, a flying dove; many girls in yoga positions; a line drawing of a lumberjack with his head cut off and blood coming from his neck, don’t look at that. Or wait, is it supposed to be funny? Realize you are holding your breath.

Seize as the door opens behind you; turn or not turn, smile or not smile? Fear a smile will look like what it feels like, a crack in a piece of wood. The door is still open, it’s closing, it’s closed.

You cannot stay in the entryway, you have to go up or down. That girl with the long pretty red hair is behind the counter. She made you relax last time; she complimented your hat. She said it looked soft. It is soft. It’s made of a blanket (tell yourself) your mother held you in as a baby, a marigold blanket, yellow light, yellow light coming in the roll-up window. Oh.

8.

Molly sat at her usual spot — corner table, closest to the roll-up door — and felt herself exhale, a loosening she experienced each time she came to the cafe. It was the fourth time this week, a good week. She liked to come early and see the same faces: the two men who laughed a lot together at the communal table, the morning barista; the woman who came in around the same time each morning and said a few words to the regulars. Molly had not yet caught her eye, but maybe soon, if it kept being a good week, a good month.

She sipped her coffee, black — the chemo was making anything sweet taste like metal this week — and appreciated the sameness, the no-slippage, the daily routine that took place yesterday and would take place tomorrow. The luxury of sameness. Also, to be around people not asking how she was feeling, how she was doing. She was in fact feeling well. She was still in the hellish big curve, but had a sense it was the second half of the curve; that in not too long the road would open to a straightaway. Preferably a scenic road! The 1 in California. Or what about Capri? There must be a beautiful seaside drive in Capri.

Molly looked into her coffee. Everything these days made her eyes wet, including this morning the gratitude that came with thinking she might get to Capri. 

7.

James rolled up to the cafe at 6:50, a little earlier than usual. Well, twenty minutes earlier. He’d decided to ride his bike to work today. Not completely unusual, his offices were just downtown, but a somewhat hare-brained idea this week, when he’d have head out to the Bull Run Watershed near Mt. Hood; the feds were making noise again about wanting to cover the reservoirs, which was ridiculous, James thought, as he locked his bike next to hers. Well, he could get a ride out there with Brian.

There was only one customer ahead of James, a pregnant woman with a yoga mat. The girl in the green skirt was handing her change. James did not want his moment to pass so soon. He decided to study the pastry case. Not that he ever bought any pastry, or only a few times, that roll-up thing with the ham. Peering into the case, he was able to surreptitiously see her in profile. She wore her hair short, and yet in the back she had made two tiny pigtails, each no bigger than a pen cap. Just looking at them make James swallow. What was he going to do?

“Hi,” May said, to the guy staring at the pastry. “Do you want something this morning?”

Marea, who was behind the counter grabbing yesterday’s bank, saw the guy by the pastry case straighten. She’d seen him here before. Youngish, tall, and apparently this morning, struck mute.

“Or just the usual?” asked May.

“Just coffee, thanks,” said James, taking the paper cup she handed him, hoping his face was not as flushed as it felt.

Marea stood with May, watching the young man walk out and to his bike. “Ooh, he likes you,” she said.

“What? No,” said May, but she was laughing.

6.

Francisco pulled the Ram to the kerb. He was running late today. He preferred to be here by 6:15, and it was nearly 6:30. He opened the door of the double-cab and lifted out the plastic tray of donuts. Two dozen, plus three specials, today aqua-icing with chocolate sprinkles. American holidays called for specific colors, pink-with-red for Valentine’s Day, green for St. Patrick’s. Francisco was not sure why there was an Irish holiday in the States but none for Italians or Mexicans or Hondurans. Most days, which started at 2:30am, getting the donuts frying and decorated and delivered, Francisco picked the colors at random. It was commerce, not art.

“Good morning,” said Francisco.

“Good morning,” said May, as Francisco passed the length of the espresso bar, swapping today’s full tray for yesterday’s empty, and heading back out the front door within twenty seconds.  

May picked up the donuts. The aqua ones were hilarious. Who, one might wonder, would eat aqua food? But May did not wonder as she set them in the baking case, knowing the specials nearly always sold first.