Highly Invested in the Lives of Others

People are intriguing. At least, the stories that I make for them are.

Sitting in my usual spot at my usual café, I can imagine any number of stories for the lives of the other frequent visitors, while never going so far as to get their real stories. I sit on the outside of these social circles with my sketchbook in hand, capturing them in the pages to become characters in my daydreams. Every passing conversation is fuel for my imagination. If I speak to any one of these people now, my world will fall apart like the unwinding of a poorly built plot. Everyone I cross paths with becomes a dear figure to me, even if they don’t know it.

Today, however, I don’t have time to imagine; I have a class to attend. I sit down in my spot, opening up my sketchbook instinctively, but I’m only waiting for my latte to go.

“Latte for Lucy!” the barista calls, no sooner than I can dig a pen out of my bag. I scramble to my feet before she can get away without receiving my thanks. I may not enjoy conversations, but I’m not a monster. Grabbing my order, I make a leave for the door, rushing to catch my bus. My umbrella has just popped open when something jolts me to a stop. “Lucy?” an unfamiliar voice behind me. Turning, I find myself face-to-face with a salt-and-pepper-haired woman who visits this café as often as I do. Emery is my name for her.

“That’s your name, right? You left this on the table in there. You’re very skilled!” Her arm is outstretched, my sketchbook in hand. “I happen to peek over your shoulder from time to time.” She admits through a smile. “Well, thank you. I’m sorry you had to get soaked by the rain to return it.” Again, all I can manage are pleasantries. “Oh, it’s no issue, I like the rain.” Out of steam, I muster a “take care” and turn to leave.

At my bus stop, the cold metal bench keeps me more alert than I’d like, drawing me towards the warmth of my sketchbook and the faces held inside. Opening it to my last page, looking back at me isn’t a familiar face, but an unfamiliar name accompanied by a number, and a message

I’d like to get to know you - Moira

A large truck passes by. The rumbling of its engine reverberating through my coffee cup as I realize Emery is no longer one of my characters.

Weeks pass before I convince myself to venture back to the café. As often as she frequents the place, I figure there’s a chance we won’t run into each other. That chance was as slim as I’d feared. The bell tolls above the door, and she looks up from where she’s sitting. At my usual table. A smile pulled taut across her face, she waves me over, calling my name.

“Lucy! It’s been a while!” The eyes of the café are directed towards me, the recipient of Moira’s attention, but the fourth wall break doesn’t last long. I take up a seat across from her, not wanting to draw any more glances and obtain the label of bitch by ignoring her.

“Hey, you never called.” I don’t know this woman. “I know it was bold of me, and I shouldn’t have expected much, but I’ve had my eye on you for some time.” She shares. “I’ve never been one to be direct, so when I saw your book, I thought ‘here’s my chance!’” Already, I’ve learned more about this Emery, or I should say Moira, than I would’ve liked to. I haven’t even muttered a hello, yet she keeps talking. “My dad owns this place, been open 30 or so years. I like to watch the people who come in whenever I get the chance to hang around here. You come here a lot, but we’ve never spoken.” Again, I say nothing to this. “I get it, some aren’t the talking type. I was the same way around your age.” This piques my interest, and I finally ask her one thing about herself. “What changed?” She glances towards the window before continuing. “I guess you could say it was the desire to change, rather than anything actually changing in me.”

“Latte for Lucy!” calls a new barista I haven’t seen before. It really has been a while.

“That’s for you.” Moira motions to the pickup counter. I argue, “But I haven’t ordered anything yet.” “I did. Had a feeling you’d come in today. Figured you wouldn’t get up and leave with a hot drink in front of you.” She explains as she gets up from the table. Saying a quick thanks to the barista, she glides back to the table and plops the mug down in front of me. “Thank you. You really didn’t have to.” Great. Now I’m obligated to stay, and I have a favour to return. “Oh, but I did. I’m sure you’d have run off otherwise.” She retorts. She’s got me there

She watches me sip at my coffee for a bit before declaring, “If you’re really interested in finding out what changed my interest in people, we should meet up once a week. Maybe you’ll learn.” There it is. The favour I can return. “I guess I might as well. I come here often enough.” The sickness in my stomach says otherwise, but it's settled. We’ll meet up every week for about a month. At least, that was the plan.

At our second meeting, Moira told me a story. We sat at our same table, the weather was the same rainy haze it had been the day my story for her had holes drilled into it, and her name was changed to Moira.

The story had been one from her teenage years. “I can’t say when it happened for sure, but somewhere, sometime, I lost the ability to connect with others. Eventually, the desire went along with it. No matter the depth or length of conversation, there remained a layer of static in front of me, preventing me from really seeing the other person. It was around then that I got into art.” I look at her with what must be an odd expression. "You haven’t mentioned you were into art.” Another quick retort, “You have been trying not to get to know me.” Again, she got me there. “Anyway, I’d met an artist who was maybe 20 years my senior on a trip to a gallery, and he agreed to mentor me. It was through pictures that I began to read others.

“One day, I was doing just the same as you do. Sitting in a public place, the train station, I think it was, drawing people and conjuring up all these stories for them.” I nearly drop the mug in my hands. “The same as I do?” I ask, voice weak. “No sense in feigning ignorance. I could see it in your face whenever you sat here alone, people-watching. It’s very easy to notice once you know what you’re looking for. Although I didn't back then.

"Someone I’d had my eye on happened to sit on the bench beside me. Someone whose story I could never capture. He struck up a conversation with me, but I didn’t get a word in; I just listened. It was a story I never could have imagined myself; it was real.

"This man always had an expression I couldn't quite grasp, but once he told me his story, it lifted right off his face." Moira toys with the end of her braid while she seems to consider the next part.

"A week after we'd spoken, I was reading the man's obituary in the paper. Until then, I thought I'd had people figured out, but the stories I'd made for them were really for me. It's selfish." My cheeks burned, and though she could see their change in hue, she didn't falter. "When I first saw you doing what I had done all those years ago, I thought 'the poor girl must not know how selfish she is'. To write others' stories and mistake them for the truth. It's one thing to avoid them, but to rob people of sharing their own truth is another."

Understanding grows in the silence between us. Everything she says rings true as a bell, beckoning me further from my comfort zone on the outer circle. A real bell rings, drawing my attention. Eyes landing on Moira's empty chair, I realize she's left the café.

On the bus ride home, for once, I don't draw or daydream. Despite my discomfort, I look around and feel connected.

The following week, same time and day, I find not Moira, but an older man sitting at our table. I know him to be the owner of the café. Moira's Father. He looks towards me with a sort of blurry recognition before calling out my name with a questioning tone. Watching me settle tentatively into my seat, I can see his decision that I must be the Lucy he's waiting for.

"Hello, you're Moira's Father?"

"Yes, that's right." He confirms in a Spanish accent as lush as the moustache it passes through. "She wanted me to give you this." He hands me an envelope before getting up to leave with as few words as his daughter.

That weekend, I'm dressed in black. The contents of the envelope heavy in my handbag. A lifetime on paper. She had known what would happen long before our meeting, but her story wasn't done being told.

On the other side of these chapel doors are new people. People whose stories I can’t make up. Because I already know her story, and they’re all a part of it. Just as I am.