For Real

For Real – Okkervil River (listen in new tab)

Sunday brunch at Cymbeline’s. The restaurant is packed. Claire sits alone in a booth by the window. People watch her from outside, jealous of the good seat she lucked into and holds alone.

Her head throbs slowly. She went out with some old girlfriends from school last night. The term to be applied to their night is ‘epic’. She’s surprised she could drag herself out of bed. She rubs her temples, resting her elbows on the syrup-sticky menu. Her head feels loose on her shoulders.

The clink and clamour of the customers mixes with the occasional yell from the kitchen. Somewhere under the din, music plays. It’s scrubbed by the bustle, so that only the loudest parts can be heard. The noise rattles in her brain. But, it doesn’t bother her. Friday she got immense news. Last night she was celebrating.

K arrives, weaving between overfull tables and past waitresses working with accustomed, cavalier grace. He looks rested. She can see some of his colour’s come back. Him and Shannon splitting up, it really gutted him. She had watched him walking through the city’s winter canyons hanging onto his entrails. But he is still here. Still an object in space.

But, Shannon. Clair has known her since high school. One night a few weeks ago, she had called Claire. It was late, her voice sounded like she was imploding, contracting to a single point in the centre of her stomach. Where she was now empty. The call had been a strained normal and ended abruptly. Maybe a battery died. And then that was it.

It made her sad. But, Claire doesn’t want to think about that.

K slides onto the bench opposite her. The vinyl squeaks a little as he settles in. “Breakfast was a great idea, Claire.”

Claire: “Totally. You hear from G.T.?”

K: “Yeah, he’s coming soon, I think. He’s got to pick up Brae or drop her off. I’m not sure. He wasn’t very clear.”

Claire: “Well, whatever.” Her voice drips with sarcasm. He knows she hopes Brae doesn’t come. It’s a malicious thought, her mouth bares a slight curl. “Thanks for taking my shift. I really wanted to go out last night. I had the get-ups-and-gos.”

K’s eyes light a little, like he figured out the riddle in her barely suppressed smile. “What’s the secret?”

She’s got a few, but Claire’s excited about only one of them: “You can’t tell anyone, like really, but my inheritance, you know, Grandpa Titus’s. It’s close to coming through. I mean it’s been like two years of legal BS. But, now it’s close.”

K: “Really, that’s amazing. Do you mind if I ask how much?”

Claire: “I’m not sure yet. It’s not going to be millions or nothing, but a fair bunch. I don’t really want to jinx it, you know? But it’s gonna be not nothing.” She holds her arm out as if measuring the fish she was about catch.

K: “Yeah. Well that’ll be quite the party.”

Claire: “Totally. Just totally.” She stops. A wheel turns in her head; it’s been turning for days. “You know Esther’s thinking about retiring, maybe selling the café.”

K: “Yeah, well she’s been running Ulysses for years, maybe decades. Last night she came in, was talking non-stop about villas and Egypt. Plus, her husband’s never really liked Toronto. I didn’t know she was thinking about selling, though.”

Claire smiles up at the waitress when she arrives. “I took the liberty of ordering coffee.”

K: “Smart”

The woman works with cool ambivalence. It’s the confidence of a brunch veteran. She unloads a pair of cups from one arm and pours out coffee. She throws down some creams and leaves.

Claire: “Huh. I guess we’re not ready to order.”

K shrugs. “Well, no. I always have the French toast anyways.”

Claire scans the people waiting outside. She sees G.T. trying to get in. Brae clutches onto his arm, trying to smile their way past the squad of frat guys at the head of the line.

Claire tries to get used to Brae, but something about her irks her. She’s dirt in the nails, as Grandpa Titus used to say. Not quite a problem, but irritating beyond ignoring. “Ugh. G.T.’s here, and he’s brought Miss Sunshine. I can’t stand her. She’s so damn perky. I mean god, she can’t be like that all the time.”

K: “You know, people might describe you as perky.”

Claire sends him a cutting glance: “Shut-up.”

K: “Just saying.”

Somehow, G.T. and Brae eventually make their way in and to the table. G.T. slides into the booth beside K. Brae lands cheerfully beside Claire. The women exchange acuminous hellos.

Brae: “Claire, you look good. I like your hair.”

Claire, her voice is piqued and poorly concealed: “What? I just woke up.”

Brae: “Well. It’s cute.” Her face is a smile with large doe eyes. What does G.T. even see there? It’s been months now. Usually he’s botched it by now.

Claire wants to say something, but stops her tongue, half-annoyed at herself for maybe liking the compliment. “Well, thanks.”

Things settle. They order. G.T. and K are talking about work. Brae wants to talk about the bars. She participates, but distractedly. Mid-meal, the table is filled with their dishes. The waitress comes to top-up their coffees. And then, the idea that had uncurled in her head explodes from the bottom of Claire’s brain, pushing a wave of force out to her face, erupting as an adumbrate smile.

Claire slams both palms down on the table. The cups jump. The pouring coffee misses it mark and flows hot onto Brae’s jeans, causing her jump up to get out of the way, bumping the table, spilling more.

Brae: “Hey! Jesus Claire.”

Claire ignores her.

Brae now in the aisle wipes at her legs frantically. G.T. and K stare at Claire.

“K! I just had the best idea!” She slams the table again.

The waitress stands with her arms crossed. Her foot taps. She does not have time for this. Her voice is irascible and heavy: “Is the idea to stop doing that?... Ugh. I’ll get a cloth.”