Between the Minute and the Hour

Between the Minute and the Hour

“Expresso, extra hot, no whip.”

He has a husky voice, the kind that sends shivers up my spine, and for just a minute I let myself consider him. Gray eyes, brown hair, broad in the shoulders with a jaw that a younger Harrison Ford might envy; he makes the same order every day he comes to this shop, and every day he sits across from me. How long has he been doing it? A few weeks, maybe… my sense of time frays at the edges, sometimes, and I have a hard time remembering what I’ve already done and what I just intend to do. Not that it matters much; it’s enough that he knows me by now, that I always take the same table as far from the window as I can get, that I always read the same book. That I take pains never to touch anyone. Most everyone here knows me that way, or at least I think they do. Maybe they still need a little more time. Am I even a regular here yet? Must be… the waitress remembered my order today without my having to say it. At least, I think it was this time that I didn’t have to say it…

“May I sit down?”

Slipped out there for a bit, hard to tell how long… now he’s standing in front of me with that little half-smile on his lips and his hand already on the chair and he’s already reaching for my hand and there’s not time for me to move it and then it happens like it has a thousand times before: contact.

“Excuse me, if you’d rather I not…”

“No, no, it’s all right… I’m just not used to company.” The blonde girl sets her book aside and tucks her hair behind her ear. “You’re Michael, aren’t you?”

Surprise tugs his lips into a sheepish grin as he adjusts himself in the chair and takes a sip of coffee to cover his hesitation. “I didn’t think I’d ever dropped my name in here.”

“You haven’t.” The girl flashes him an odd, knowing little smile. “You like them just knowing you by your smile and your order, right? Mr. Expresso, no whip, extra hot.”

This time the smile breaks into a full-blown laugh, and he looks at her with a fresh curiosity in his eyes. “What are you, some kind of mind-reader?”

“Not exactly. I just notice things.” Her glasses catch the light and refract it from the cold blue of her eyes like hundreds of little gears turning. “The scar on your hand… motorcycle accident?”

“With my brother, when I was fourteen…” His laughter is a little more shaky this time, and there’s a little discomfort in his eyes. “You sure we’ve never met before?”

“I wouldn’t really know.” Her smile goes slightly vague as her eyes drift somewhere past him. “I don’t think so, but I can never really tell.” She pauses, shakes her head slightly, and flashes him a smile. “You came over to ask me something, didn’t you?”

“I… yeah, actually.” Flustered now, he almost spills his coffee onto his tie and sets it down a little too quickly. “I keep seeing you around here now and then and I was wondering if you’d like to go to dinner some time.”

“Why not now?” A touch of color brushes her cheeks, but she manages a smile that’s as inviting as it is delicate.

“In the middle of the morning?” He stares at her with a trace of confused amusement in his eyes.

“Is it?” She glances up at the window, then shakes her head quietly. “I’m sorry, my sense of time is a little bit…”

“Hey, I know what working late is like.” He flashes her a reassuring grin. “Half the time I can’t remember when it is, either. Look, I have a meeting in a twenty minutes I have to get to, but we could do it tonight if you want.”

“Tonight…” Her eyes drift off again, lingering on the cheap plastic clock on the wall, a slight frown on her lips. “Are you sure I can’t talk you into going now? I’m not sure tonight is going to be a good time…”

“Hey, any time, all right? No big pressure.” His pen scratches on a napkin as he writes a string of numbers in a quick, generous scrawl. “Here’s my cell and office numbers… give me a ring and we’ll set something up, okay?” He glances at his watch, shakes his head slightly and slides it across the table to her. “I need to get going, all right?”

Her delicate fingers cradle the napkin as she looked down at it carefully, and he’s halfway to his feet before she murmurs softly. “I don’t have a phone…”

He visibly takes stock of her, unnerved but intrigued, like looking at a particularly exotic plant sprouted in the midst of a freeway. You have to wonder how it got there, and how in God’s name it survives… Checking his watch again, he leans down and smiles at her gently. “Will you be here at closing time?”

“I think so.”

A hint of helplessness to her smile leaves him shaking his head and squeezing her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “If you are, then I’ll be by to pick you up and we can go from there, all right?” He gave her one more smile, and then walked out the door with the brisk pace of a man behind schedule.

She looks from the paper to his back to the clock to the paper, and then she’s rising to her feet to call after him but the long horn of a bus is already filtering through the glass windows and people are scrambling on the street outside and someone’s shouting for someone to call an ambulance and she already knows he’s gone before she can even say a word and when she slumps back into her chair she can see her own face reflected in the clock’s surface.

“Excuse me, if you’d rather I not…”

I know what I’m going to say before he even finishes the sentence, because nothing I can say is going to stop it; if it’s not the bus it’ll be a car or a motorcycle or just a random coronary on the street outside. His threads are tangled toward it, and I can’t unwind them even if I tie him to the chair in here. He’s going to die out there and I know it and I can’t do a damn thing about it because that’s just the way it is; once I see it, it’s going to happen whatever I do about it. If I just get up and start walking, maybe I won’t have to see it happen and maybe I won’t carry his face with me for as long as time keeps shoving me around like this. Except that I can’t do that, because I’m the last conversation he’s ever going to have before he walks out in front of a car or a bus or just drops dead. So I pull a few blond strands out of my face and tuck them behind my ear, fold the napkin with his number on it into my lap, and give him the best smile I know how to give. “No, it’s all right… I’m just not used to company. Sit down and talk with me a while, Michael, as long as you have the time.”