Piper Square - Chapter 6 - Cafe Maroon

Cafe Maroon - Art by Jacob Hair

The sun strikes the window hard near the end of the day, causing a shine that tracks the eyes of would be onlookers and hides the world within. Upon it is the delicate filigree dances with the light, delicate patterns that swirl like the winds over the ocean, first placed upon it when the Cafe Maroon opened so many decades ago.

I am hypnotized.

I cannot look away.

I am filled with nostalgia.

The world around me slows and a dull ache begins to form from within my phantom skull. Color drains from my surroundings. I am drawn closer, pushing my head through with ease, my body obediently following, unable to resist.

The place is right, but the time is wrong.

The room is darker, the murmur louder, the music gone.

The faces are unfamiliar, but I recall them nonetheless.

I am back at the beginning, but I was never here. In the corner, hidden by the darkness, I hear her a voice. Her voice, acrid and heavy, worn and shaped by a constant stream of cigarettes demands something I cannot make out. I walk closer, my eyes focus on her mouth, I see the acid of her personality in worn down corners of her mouth, burned into a perpetual frown.

“I want justice!” she yells, briefly quieting the room.

A hand stretches from the darkness of the booth, grabbing hers in a swift but gentle motion, his thumb consolingly playful as it moves back and forth in her palm.

I move in close but am unable to see his face. The darkness clings to him, protecting him from my gaze. His voice, foreign and unknown says to her “Don’t worry. Trust me...” before leaning in for a kiss.

I try to stop them, but pass through the table, turning as I fall backwards through the wall, catching a glimpse of her face, trying so hard to remember her name.

---

I am looking through the window of the Maroon Cafe. The sun has nearly set. I cannot recall how long I have been standing here. The world is constantly moving around me, and if I stand still too long, I fear I will disappear forever.

And though I am dead, I am here. The thought of becoming nothing frightens me.

Through the glass I peer into the cafe, where the social and the solitary are juxtaposed against one another upon a backdrop of boiling water, roasted beans, and pastries that eventually go stale.

In the corner I spy her once more, the girl with the innocent smile. The girl with the lonely eyes. The girl with the broken heart.

She sits alone, in the far corner. Her shift is over, but she does not want to go home. Instead she stares at the pages of her open journal, looking for words to put down that rarely come.

They underestimate, ignore, abuse, and deride her. But they have yet to kill her smile. She is a butterfly lost amidst the color of spring, she is the moon dipping her delicate feet into the ocean.

I want to hold her; to cradle her in my arms.

I want to rip the sadness from her eyes.

I want to lie to her; to tell her everything will be alright.

I see her when no one else does. I watch her sleep, and let the sound of her breathing calm my tortured heart. I live in her solitude, wishing for nothing more than to run my fingers through her hair, to kiss my poor, beautiful Mary Anne goodnight. I take solace in a singular thought.

My imagination runs wild at the thought of her. Her body, light as sea foam, and delicate to the touch. I close my eyes and see her dancing, slowly, her arms gliding through me , around me, surrounding me. For a moment I am alive again, and I catch her in my arms, lean forward and plant a kiss upon her ivory lips.

Then she passes through me, but her spirits are raised. I can see her, where once she was frightened, she has now found comfort in her solitude. And I dare to believe that though she cannot see me, perhaps she can feel my presence.

We are alone together.

I look at her once more only to see a familiar but foreign hand stretched out toward her. A smile unlike the ones I have known spreads across her face. Her body is feigning shyness but expressing anticipation. Her laughs are nervous, but genuine. He clasps her hand in his, and runs his thumb along her palm.

I realize she is being stolen from me.

I try to walk through the silvery window, but my feet are like lead. I cannot move, and fear begins to set in.

If I am the ghost, who is this man that haunts me.

And then voice comes at me from behind me“Is there anything more tragic than a ghost in love?”

I turn to look, but the voice is gone.

I turn back, and she is gone.

I look around, the world has passed me by and I am surrounded by nothing.