Missed Connections

She scans the ivory card up and down. Its edges crisp. The cardstock fresh. She rests her thumb on the little, brown filigree border that surrounds lines of scrawled script, printed in charcoal black ink. Words like ‘confit,’ ‘terrine’ and ‘fumé’ are sprinkle throughout the lines. She reads them again. Once. Twice. Three times. Until it all sinks in. She places the card back down on the shoulder-high counter and rests her elbow there. The other hand gently tucked into a small pocket of the white apron wrapped around her waist and knotted at the front. She rests down into the hard, white surface. Her weight slightly leaning. Her eyes glance around the softly lit room in front of her. Tall, broad windows framed in black line the side of one wall, angled and curving outward. A door interrupts them, black as well, bordered on either side by small, picture windows with beveled glass. The window above the transom is frosted with a number, and the ones trailing down the side are full of stickers. Some put up for pride. Some put up for requirement. And some left behind, long forgotten in their relevancy.

Farther back along the wall with the windows sit rows of booths. White and plush in their interior. Hugging round a soft, cream circular table. Each lit from above. The gentle light encircling them as they become tiny, private rooms of their own. Across the rest of the open space lie more circles, dressed in white, with the dark wooden chairs surrounding them. She can see her pathway through them. Her well-worn track winding across and through the scuffed, stained, but freshly shined floorboards. The floor itself almost invisible beneath the cream white folds and scattered chairs fit tightly on top of it.

She's alone. Save for the occasional appearance of other bodies with white aprons, swiftly moving from circle to circle, back across the room and through a shiny, swinging dark brown door on the other end of the counter. She turns away, gazing down at the low lying, wood table beneath the counter. Stacks of layered fabric and shiny, spikey utensils wait for her attention. She starts. Layering utensils inside fabric. Then a swift curl with her fingers, as she rolls the fabric forward, encompassing the utensils there. She picks it up with one hand. Critiquing. Admiring. And then places it gently down in a smooth grey, rectangular tub waiting off to the right side. She repeats this. Fingers falling into a rhythm. Hands moving metal and fabric from one side of the table to other. Again. And again. And again. The pile of fabric to her left getting smaller. And the grey tub on her right filling up.

Tinkle, tinkle. Clink. Swoosh. She turns her head towards the sound. Across the room a young man dressed in a long, grey, wool coat appears. The door framed by the windows shuts behind him. She stares at him for a moment. Dark brown hair, clipped short. But just long enough to hint at a bit of curl on the ends. Dark eyes search the room. Hands reach up and back behind his head to clasp a red and grey plaid scarf. He pulls it off, drawing it forward and scrunching it into a bundle before stuffing it into his coat pocket. His left fingers run back through his tousled hair, fluffing it up from the root up. Another figure in a white apron approaches. Words exchanged. And he begins to follow the figure across the room, to one of the small circles dressed in white. Wood chair pulled back. He unbuttons his coat, without missing a beat, and drapes it over the back of the chair. Draping himself down on the seat. The white apron moves away. He shuffles in his chair. Pulling out a small, black screen from his denim pocket. He taps at it and it lights up. More intent tapping. His eyes trained hard down at the screen.

She stares a moment longer. Observing him. Studying him. Then looks away. Her right hand finding its way to the ivory-coloured card resting on the countertop. She glances over the curvy black lettering scrawled across its surface. Then, remove her left hand from the small pocket of her white apron. Secures the knot. Then places both her palms on top of her chest. The white card clasped tightly in her right hand. Her fingertips resting on her bare skin. Her palms on the soft, crinkly blue denim of her collared shirt. She closes her eyes. And inhales deeply. She pauses at the top of her breath. And exhales slowly out her nose. Ready.

She opens her eyes. And begins to navigate the intricate maze of tables and chairs, across the scuffed, wooden floor. She stops when she gets there. Standing inches from him. His gaze still firmly fixed on the small, brightly lit screen held in front of him. His thumbs tapping away. She waits. And clears her throat. Her eyes trained in on the back of his head. His thumbs continue to tap. His eyes focused down. She waits a moment longer. Then places the card down in front of him on the table. His thumbs pause for a moment. Held aloft in mid air. He looks up. His dark brown eyes meet hers for a moment. Searching. Questioning. Familiar? Unsure. She smiles. And says a few words, motioning to the cardstock as she does. He places his hand on it, palm facing down, fingers spread across its surface. He mumbles a few words. Then briefly smiles. The corners of his lips gesturing upwards, hinting at a bigger smile not given. He turns his eyes back to the screen. She hesitates for a moment. Then turns, winding her way back through the tables to the edge of the room.

She stops at the counter. And rests her elbow once again on its shoulder-high height. Her left hand finding its way back to her apron pocket. She gazes over at him again. Eyes still fixed on the screen. Forearms resting on the table's edge. Shoulders hunched over, creating a cocoon for the screen below. She's seen this play out before. Same time. Same table. Same screen. Every week. She sighs. And glances down at the small, wooden table below. Ready to play her part. She sighs again. Hand reaching into the rectangular, grey tub. Extracting a rolled bundle of metal encased in fabric. Her work from before. Her other hand clasps a crystal-clear glass and flips it over, placing it down in front of her. Hand reaches for another glass object, this one filled with sparkling, clear liquid. She picks it up. Clink. She taps the lip of the glass as she pours its contents out and over into its new container, filling it to the brim. She places it back down, grabbing the newly filled glass in one swift movement.

She turns back to the room. Her eyes quickly finding his curved figure, hunched over the brightly lit screen. She sighs again. And begins to move towards him. Closing the space between them until her feet come to rest a few inches from his own. She places the fabric bundle and the filled glass down on the table. He shifts in his chair. But doesn't look up. She waits. And waits. She gestures towards the cardstock, repeating a few words. He looks up at her, slightly startled. His eyes wide. His hands dropping the screen on the table. He stutters. And shakes his head. His palm pressing down again on the ivory cardstock, sandwiching it between his hand and the table. She nods and waits again. His eyes glancing at the door behind him and back again. She nods. Then turns and makes her way back across the scuffed and shiny floorboards.

She can feel his eyes following her across the room, back to the countertop. But when she turns, his eyes are on the screen again. Thumbs tapping away. She waits for a moment. And catches him glancing once again at the door behind him. Then he’s back down on his phone. A rhythm sure to be repeated. A voice calls to her from behind the counter. She turns her head and leans inward. Eyes focused on the commotion and clamber on the other side. She listens intently. Nodding. And ‘umhum’-ing in response. The voice behind the counter moves on to another ear. And she turns her attention back to the room. He's up from his seat now. Screen stowed safely away in his pocket. Probably. His hands clasp the wool coat draped over the chair, slinging it across his back. His arms shrug through. Coat undone, he makes his way across the softly lit room to the door. He glances back for a moment. Catching her eye as he does. A brief hesitation. Knowing. Recognition. Unsure. And then click. Tinkle, tinkle. Swoosh. He's gone. She lingers for a moment. Staring at the black framed door. Then makes her way back across the room to the small, round table dressed in white. She gathers the glass and the rolled bundle. Still full and left untouched. As usual. And carries them back across the room to her post at the shoulder high countertop.

Tinkle, tinkle. Click. Swoosh. Her head turns at the sound. She stops. A tall woman dressed in a felted, camel coat enters. Her eyes quickly glance around the room. Her long, wavy blonde hair sparkling with flecks of rain under the lights. She calls out. And is greeted by a figure with a white apron. Her voice firm, but soft. The intensity and focus of her words only occasionally rising to ear level from across the room. She gestures at the now empty table. Again, glancing around the space. More words. More responses. She reaches into a folds of her camel-coloured coat and withdraws another small, black screen. Her fingers tap. The screen lights up. She moves closer to the figure in the white apron. Handing him the small screen. She points. And waits. A nod. Another nod. Then she takes the phone back, shoving it back into the folds of her coat. And turns away. Another click, tinkle, swoosh. And she's gone. An unfamiliar face. If not an unfamiliar scene.

She places the rolled-up bundle back in the rectangular, grey plastic tub. She sets the glass down in another tub, set on top of a shiny, wheeled metal cart off to the side of the wooden table. She moves back to the countertop. Leaning both forearms on its surface. Calling into the steam, and heat, and noise on the other side. She pauses. And listens. Waiting for a response. Tinkle, tinkle. The sound catches her off guard. She turns and glances over her shoulder. The man with the grey, wool coat is back. His screen clasped tightly in the curled fingers of his right hand. He calls out. His words met by another figure with a white apron. They speak some more. Their words fast. Their sentence is short. This is new. She stares at the exchange, transfixed. Eyes glancing from one figure and back to the other. Over, and over again. The man gestures to the screen in his hand. The figure shakes their head. And the man turns to leave. But he stops. Catching her eye for a moment. She freezes. He holds her gaze. Questioning. Wondering. His lips part. His eyes intense. He holds it for a moment. And one moment longer. And then he presses his lips together. And turns away, heading back out the door.

The click and swoosh of the door, followed by the tinkle unfreeze her. She looks down. And shakes her head. Then her eyes fly up. Recognition. Understanding. A fiery jolt of energy flashes through her body. Her feet begin to move. Dodging dressed, white tables and dark, wooden chairs. Hands pushing off their hard surfaces as she dashes by. She reaches the door. Pressing her thumb down on a worn, golden latch. Click. She pulls firmly. Swoosh. The door opens. The tinkle of chimes echo behind her. She calls out into the wet, grey dusk beyond. But she is met with only silence. He's gone.