Morning Reflections

I sit by the café window and gaze out at the crowds walking by. All these colorful people, so full of life, with busy schedules, probably headed to someone who loves them. I sit and regard my melancholy reflection, recalling my past. My troubled past—

“Excuse me, are you going to buy something?” a man with an apron and a nametag asks. “You can’t just sit here if you’re not going to buy something.”

“Oh. Sorry.” I rise and let the man feel the anguish in my soul by staring directly into his eyes, the red rims moist with the threat of tears.

I decide a hot beverage will help me recall my troubled past anyway, at least it will provide some solace against the darkness that was my life in the before time. Before it happened. I turn back to the window—

“Hello? Are you going to stand there all day? Is there something on the window? Do I need to get the cleaners?” the same man asks. I have not moved, apparently.

“No,” I say with a lilt in my voice. “No, I will purchase a hot beverage from your establishment.” This reminds me of that time I was so happy that I—

“Yo, seriously. People are waiting for a seat.”

“I shan’t trouble you longer.”

I get in line, which snakes its way from the displays of juice boxes and milks, rich cheeses and pastries. This reminds me of our time in Paris together. I regard my reflection in the display case window. That time we first kissed—

“Hey, buddy,” someone from behind me says close to my ear. “You gonna order already?”

I’d been standing there, recollecting for so long I didn’t realize I was at the head of the line. I giggle. When are we ever at the head of the line? We are all riding atop Ouroboros, the serpent that consumes its own tail in a never-ending cycle of misery. One line just leads to another, and then another, and then ano—

The man in front of me clears his throat. His low growl prompts me to proceed with my order.

“Do you have a hot beverage to stoke the dying ember that is my heart? To pilot the low flame in my soul?”

“Uh, yeah. That’ll be three bucks.”

I reach into my coin purse, the one we bought together. The one that was going to be ours, together. Forever.

“Dude.”

I take my coffee and find another window to gaze out of and reminisce. My reflection stares back at me behind the steam rising out of my cup of solace. Why did you leave me here, alone, behind this steam of regret? Will I ever see you again?

Another reflection materializes next to mine and I imagine it’s your face. I imagine the view is from the top of the Eiffel Tower and not to a trashed alleyway with graffiti that says in bright pink letters, “Suck deez nutz”.

Oh how we had such fun twirling atop the world on that fateful day in gay Paris. I was grateful for your love. Your reflection in the window smiles at me, a toothless smile with a scent I cannot immediately place. A cologne of the underworld. I regard my reflection looking at yours, and I realize it is not you but a vagabond mere inches away from my face. Smiling at me with a toothless grin, breathing deeply down my neck. I find another window to gaze out of with my hot beverage.

This window has someone sitting there already, so I stand behind that person and regard my reflection, behind the steam of my cup of cozy warmth. I remember waking up to your face and tickling your nose. I remember the feather pillows upon my head and the soft caress—

“Get a fackin’ room you two,” the person sitting in front of me says. “You look like you’re about to make love with your reflection there and I don’t want you to spill your drink.”

I politely thank the rude customer and swivel about on my heel like a dancer. I search and seek for another window but they are all occupied. A tear rolls down my cheek, thinking of you, thinking of our time together. So I head to the restroom in the back and lock the door behind me. Finally, we are alone.

I sit on the commode and regard my reflection in the mirror over the sink. How I miss you, miss our time together. All I have are pale reflections of you. I see myself through a scarred-up public restroom mirror and I shudder. This is not how I want to be remembered. This is not who I am to you.

I hear a banging on the restroom door and muffled shouting from behind. Someone is trying to get in, to take me away from you again. Before I get up I set my cup of fuzzy coziness down and unsling my bag from my shoulder. I unzip the bag and take you out. I hold you before me. At least what’s left of you.

I try to regard my reflection in you, dear hand mirror, but you are cracked. Broken. A mere shard and nothing else. All I see is an eye. Or a tooth. A freckle. How I miss dancing with you atop Paris, that fateful day when you escaped my grip and tumbled down, down, down. I try to regard my reflection, but see nothing. Just emptiness.

I hear a key enter the lock of the restroom door before it swings open violently. Apparently I have been sitting here for an hour, and the manager is furious. Next to him is a mother and her child. The child has wet herself.

If only they knew the pain I bear with me every single day.

I try to regard my reflection in the eyes of the mother as she scolds me, but she is hitting me with her handbag and it hurts more than the pain in my heart.