Greeting Card Aisle

Greeting Card Aisle – Sarah Harmer (Listen in new tab)

Greeting Card Aisle – Sarah Harmer

It turns out her name is Maura. Everyone calls her Maury. A few days later they met just as friends. Middle of the afternoon. A busy cafe. It was a safe plan. He told himself that. It was good enough for the second time, the day after that. This is the third date, though he doesn’t call them that. It's late, maybe 11:00 PM.
They've been walking in the cold evening, drifting down streets, carried on their conversation. All they've done is talk. Sometimes their arms touched, or she put her hand on his arm, near his elbow, when he said something funny, which was often.
He’s trying to stay in the lines. It's not easy. She’s disarming and absorbs his charm. K keeps a list of everything, cataloging it so he knows when he’s broken a rule. He hasn't mentioned Shannon. He doesn't forget about her, either. His mind is a scale.

Now they sit in Cymbeline's Diner (probably the best French toast in town not made by someone's mother). They're just having coffee. The only waitress on duty inattentively puts up Halloween decorations, standing on the empty booth benches as she tapes orange and black streamers to the top of the wall. There aren't many customers to serve.
The music is low and familiar.
K fidgets with his cup, turning it in his hands. She plays with her hair, making coils absently around her index finger. Their conversation has paused because they both stopped to listen to the song playing over the tinny diner speakers.
Maury: "She's incredibly sad in this song."
K: "Yeah. I guess it comes across. I was a big fan of her, way back." A small act of vetting.
Maury: "I still like her. Her early stuff is my favourite, too." A pass.
K: "Well, yeah. She has a gorgeous voice. Sometimes, when she sings it sounds like how kissing feels."
She looks at him. Her eyes grip him from behind her thick framed glasses. She pulls up her purse and fishes out a stick of lip gloss. He watches as she runs the waxen tip over her lips. "I can totally see that."
K: "You know when a girl puts on lip gloss, she’s thinking about-"
He's stopped by the waitress, who has appeared holding a half empty carafe of burnt coffee. "You need me to warm you up?"
K: "Huh?"
Maury: "She means your coffee. I'll have more."
K: "I'm good. Gotta work tomorrow morning."
Waitress: "Ok." She pours Maury a full cup. The dark coffee sloshes against the sides. A few drops miss as she barely, deftly stops pouring to swing the carafe over to K’s cup. She leaves behind small brown circles on the white, silver speckled aborite. She coldly drops a few creamers. Maury watches her walk away.
K runs his hands along the chrome band at the edge of the table. He creates an index for the lines and shadows of her profile, and he files a card for his subsequent thought. And makes one for the obdurate pang in the back of his brain. It's not the first time he has wished it was a different situation.
Maury: "I bet you chose this place for the service."
K, brightly: "You gotta have the French toast."
Maury: "No doubt."

K doesn’t notice when he casually puts his hand on the small of her back, as he holds the door open for her when they leave the diner.
It turns out they live close to each other – well, by Toronto's standards. It's snowing large, lazily floating flakes. They glow orange in the street lights. They walk closer now. He has stopped counting the little touches of their hands.
It's a roving conversation, not quite probing, but becoming more and more personal. Crossing lines.
She talks about her sick grandmother, and how the old woman tries to hide it.
K: "I was sad when my grandmother died. I was maybe 10. I didn't know her that well, but she was crazy, and I missed the old bat."
Maury: "My grandmother and I are very close. She’s amazing. I lived with her a few years ago. It was so much fun. But it’s hard now. She’s so stubborn." She stops walking. "This is it."
They are outside a low, brick apartment building. The large panes of the front entrance reveal yellowed light and the faded wallpaper of a stained stairwell.
K looks around and then at her.
Time slows, each second taking longer than they expected. The snow hovers in the air. They stand there facing each other.
"Well."
"Well."
A lone flake of snow lands on Maury’s cheek. Without thinking K smoothly, gently wipes it away before it melts. As he does this, Maury searches his eyes. He isn’t hiding now. K looks down at the ground, unable to bear it. She reaches up with her hand, placing it on the back of his elbow, pulling it towards her slightly. She leans in and up on her tiptoes.
Their faces are a breath apart.
K's phone rings in his pocket. It a ring he hasn't heard in days. K steps back, stammers something, anything. "It's not that I-" He pulls his cell phone out, looks. "I have to take this."
Maury’s face is covered with confusion and disappointment. It’s palpable. "K, if I was too forward..."
"It's not that." He presses the answer key, holding the small phone to the side of his face. "Hey. Hi. What time is it there? ... What? ... Really? ... Why? ... One sec." He covers the mouth piece with his palm. "I'm sorry. I have to go."
Maury: "We'll talk again soon, right?"
K: "Yeah. I'm sorry." He is. He watches her go inside and disappear up the stairs. He puts the phone back to his ear. "What do you mean you’re coming home? When?"