A Secret

Today she got in earlier than normal. And she was not alone. Good. He, if he was something close to a he, a human living breathing he, didn’t like to see her alone. Even though she always talked about how she loved it. Her nails were brown like the leaves in the ground, her socks fuzzy and hot pink that seemed to appear every autumn and her smile crooked from the years that passed without using her retainer. She was eclectic in a way that only a frigatebird can be. The woman could be in a fucking funeral and there was some pop of color in her outfit, like she wanted to force the whole world to see a bit of that happiness. She had her days, days where the grey and black in her head consumed her mind, days where her face was nothing more than the shadows that swallowed her eyes, and days that sucked her cheeks into her bones, her knees into the ground. But come autumn, winter, summer, spring, and her feet looked like a unicorn threw up in them. Always, except on that day. He didn’t new why, he tried to, but years came, and years went, and he still had no idea what broke her body and psyche on that specific date.

He’d discovered several secrets of several clients of the little coffee shop, but she remained a mystery. João and her sister Lidia, portuguese immigrants, and owners of the coffee shop where actually wanted back home. From what he could understand from the quick swipe of their mail and ushed talks in the back area of the shop, they were accused of murdering their parents, and they did do it. They alluded to it occasionally, their father was an abuser and their mother a coke addict. He didn’t know if that freed them from their part in the vicious act, but if there was someone that should be murdered, he guessed it should be the abusers of the world. If he had some kind of sleep, he would never lose it because of that. Then there was the matron that had lunch every day at the counter. Her stool was always the same, and the cushions already had the shape of her behind branded in the worn leather. The woman, Maria, cousin of the owners either ate bitoque, bacalhau or prego and while she waited she searched through her letters. Always one from Rosa, an inmate in the prison where Maria worked. That was her secret, they were in love. Of course, he could never forget Mário, the compulsive liar. Everyone believed he was a retired car racer, but he didn’t even have a license. What he had was a cubicle in a big and boring accounting firm a few buildings down the road.

That was how he spent his days. No one could see or hear him, so he had to do something with his time. He couldn’t get out the door, there was some kind of physical barrier he wasn’t able to see, and he didn’t remember how he got there, if there was ever a time when he was on the other side and someone was in his place. But from the memories he had, he knew she was there every day. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon. But she came.

In the evenings he thought of a color, in the mornings he watched her socks closely to see if he guessed right. She would open the door, see the last blueberry muffin and say, “Good morning, Luck!”. The owners always saved the last one for her, but she thought it was pure luck. He didn’t have a name, or at least one that he could remember so that became his name. Luck. He sometimes pretended to be alive and answer, “Good morning, Clara.” Luck would smile.

Clara was nearing her forties, but looked like she was in her early thirties, she didn’t have a family that he knew about, but every week she brought a different friend to keep her company. Today was in many ways no different than any other week. The woman with whom she was with was new, her legs long and thin, her shoulders large and strong, her hair pin straight and dark, so dark, her eyes… He looked back at Clara. Mmmm he thought, the same eyes. Maybe a sister, or a cousin, that was new indeed. He got closer and sat to hear their conversation.

“So, it’s tomorrow, ahn?” The new woman asked, and Clara looked through the window silently for a few seconds. Tomorrow, what was tomorrow he thought. For a fraction of a second it was like a golden halo surged from the top of his head. Black socks day! Tomorrow was the day! How could he forget? His attention spiked after that. Luck had to know what her secret was, he had invested too much time already in this one person. “Twenty years, isn’t it?” The woman asked again. This time Clara smiled and looked back, like she had returned to her body. “He would have been beautiful, and strong.” She spoke. “Yes, he would have.” The woman answered.

“Do you want more coffee?” Lidia asked when she got to their table. Just for fun Luck said yes, she was looking directly into his eyes, and she had no idea. “That would be wonderful Lidia, thank you.” Clara moved her cup in Lidia’s direction. “It’s piping hot like you like it, querida. And you?” Lidia often changed languages mid-sentence, they were located in the middle of a Portuguese community so everyone understood her anyway. Luckly tourists hadn’t yet witnessed one of her most authentic mid sentences change that often involved, caralhos, filhos da puta and other several names that would insult in the most profane ways the mother of others.

“Lidia, this is my sister, Mara. She’s here on vacation.” Clara squeezed lightly her sister’s arm. “How lovely. It’s your first time?” Mara swallowed loudly. “Actually it’s- ” “It’s her second time. She came for the funeral.” Clara said and tapped her sister’s hand has to say, it’s okay. Now Luck was intrigued, a sister and a funeral he never knew about. “You do look alike you know? All three of you. It’s the eyes, his were the same, the green in the center and the brown on the edge, their shape, the line when he would smile.” Lidia put her hand to her chest. “Anyway, you know that better than anyone and João needs me at the counter.” She cast her goodbyes and left. “His eyes were green, weren’t they? I’m starting to forget.” Mara said and both looked through the window. “I could give you a picture, you know? I would hate for people to forget his face.” Clara said eventually. Luck didn’t remember anyone that she brought to the coffee shop with green eyes, he could be wrong of course, but he had known Clara for more years than he could count and Lidia knew of this suspicious green eyed dead person. He had to have met him sometime.

“Here.” Clara grabbed her purse and pulled out a faded picture of a young man. “Gosh he was truly beautiful.” Her sister grabbed and cradled the picture like a babe. The man in the picture had unruly dark hair, eyes like theirs and thin but broad shoulders. His nose was straight, and his mouth set in a mischievous smile one that says he was up to no good. His face was reminiscent of something or someone, probably the two women. He could be their brother, he thought. “He was your son alright.” This time both women smiled. A son. What happened to your son? Luck thought.

Clara looked at the watch on her wrist. “Well, we should be going. There’s a lot to see!” The women got up from their seats, put on their coats and walked to the door after saying goodbye to Lidia and João. When the glass door closed, Luck saw his reflection for the first time in a long time. He didn’t even recall the features of his own face, but there looking back at him, was the young man in the picture.