Get to Leave

Get to Leave - Howe Gelb(listen in new tab)

The rain started slow; now it drives against Ulysses’s windowpane, strumming the glass in low notes along with the music playing inside.

Danielle sits on the counter, near the sink. Hera leans with her back against the espresso bar. They’re watching the rivulets of rain water fracture and refract the streetscape.

The next day, Thursday night, 7:00 pm, and the café’s been empty for a while.

Hera: “Danielle. I don’t know if you should sit on the counter like that. I mean…”

Danielle gives her a look. She lifts a hand; from it a set of brass keys on a worn shoelace, shaking them for effect. It’s been a frequent display lately. “Claire gave me these. So I’m in charge. I declare that I may sit here with this commanding view.”

Hera shrugs. “Whatever.” She eyes the place. It’s clean. She checks from habit the pastry case. Its white lights frosts the few cookies and cakes that remain in fresh stasis. The bakery run hasn’t happened yet. A day, no two days late. “I hate when there’s nothing to do.”

Danielle’s turn to shrug. “You could clean the washrooms.” She pushes herself off the counter with a flourish. “I guess this counter, too.”

Hera rolls her eyes. “Claire only gave you the key because she’s out trying to get some action from that rich guy. And, K couldn’t come in today.”

Danielle grabs a wide cream-white ceramic cup from a shelf. She casually rotates it in her hands, watching the coffee slosh against its curved walls as she fills the cup from a brushed steel carafe. “I am a woman who, despite her failings, has always made the most of the opportunities that present themselves.” She sips the black coffee with caliphatic pomp.

Hera: “Is that on your underwear?”

Danielle spits, spurting in a amber mist from her lips. “Jesus. Totally.”

The bell rings. The two girls look to see who it is. The noise of the rain is chaotic, but hushes the rain as the door closes behind Maura. The little bell shepherds back out the torrent damp taps.

Danielle, wiping her mouth with a piece of paper towel: “You got soaked right through, dear.”

Maura comes across the room. Soaked shoes tile leave dark stains that slowly dry and shrink. Her dark hair is matted, sticks in clumps to her forehead and her glasses. She pushes them out of the way, shaking her wet hands dry. Her nylon jacket, dark, damp and heavy, clings to her torso.

Maura: “Yeah. I guess I got caught.”

Hera: “You want a tea or something? To warm you up?”

Maura looks at her. Her glasses have fogged a little. Her face is etched with worry, or consternation, a look exaggerated by streaked mascara.

Maura: “No. Umm. No thanks. I’m just kind of blowing through. Is K here?”

Danielle: “No. He called me last night, late, asked me to switch Saturday’s close with this one. How could I say no?”

Maura: “Oh right.” Her voice is clumsy, caught off guard. As the fog on her glasses dissipates; Hera sees her eyes - red and tired, they are lost somewhere between confused, crestfallen, and relieved. A triangulation of discomfiture.

Hera: “He didn’t tell you?”

Maura, lies: “No. I must have forgot.” She proffers a weak smile. “I ran here in the rain, too. God.” A weak offering. “I should have called first.”

Hera: “You sure you don’t want anything?”

Maura backs away: “No. Really. I should go.” She turns and is out the door.

The rain rattles in, and is shooed out again. Hera leans out over the counter and watches Maura move out of sight, her body compressed into as little space as possible against the rain and whatever else.

Hera: “What was that about?”

Danielle: “Communication error. Also, way to push too hard. That could have been a sale.”

Hera scratches her shoulder. “Whatever. I mean, I hope she ok.”

Danielle: “She’s a big girl.” She sighs deeply. “It’s so dead here.” She flails her arm at the door. “It’s so dead, that counts as drama.”

Hera: “Yeah. I wish Claire would reconsider my idea.”

Danielle: “That competition, the café contest?”

Hera, hands in the air in frustration: “The Café Olympics. Arg! You should take it seriously. So should Claire. It did wonders for Johnny Bean Good across town.”

Danille: “That’s a terrible name.”

Hera: “It is a terrible name, but they’re busy as heck now. And there’s a prize for the barista or whatever who wins the most events.”

Danielle slaps Hera on the shoulder: “Prize? Now you’re talking.”

Hera: “Good luck, there. You know what espresso is, right?”

Danielle pushes her playfully. “Easy now, showboat.”