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Café De Marquis
By
R. E. Bearlee
Café de Marquis. Fuck that sweet little small business a couple streets off of a main street in the downtown district. Fuck that place. Fuck that second ring suburb it resides in. It is because of that hellhole, that portal of Satan that life sucks right now for me. It is where I met her and where I met that weird bum. It is where I waste little bits of money consistently and even more time. It is where my hard drive crashed and why my clothes reek of cigarette smoke and brown beans. It is that stupid coffee shop that I wind up in when I don’t even plan on it. It’s that fucking-
Really it is not the café’s fault. It just attracts assholes or something. Must be the low low prices. Must be the good drinks and the nice relaxed atmosphere. There is something to look at everywhere and no one shoves you out of the way to get to the door. So really, actually the café is fine. It is a pretty good place. It is my favorite coffeehouse in the area. I really go there too often. A comfortable environment goes a long way. A clean, well-lit place goes a long way.
The café is where I go to get work done when I am not in a hurry. I’ve found it best to stroll through my assignments; giving my mind room to wander. It helps me come up with better ideas. At least I get more ideas to turn over and inspect mentally. I’m certain I am more effective with a long leash. In the café I let my eyes scan around the museum of a small business. When I spot a 19th century dageurotype of an extensively bearded man I feel free to leave my seat behind and examine it further. Here the clock doesn’t leer over me. Here idle minutes do not feel like wasted potential. Here I eavesdrop on the conversations of fellow patrons greedily, like I don’t wish to stop myself. Making sure not to turn and face the subjects. Making sure not to display outward reactions to outrageous, disgusting or hilarious anecdotes.
Heather. She is the reason. Like that stupid song on the radio. She was the reason why I thought I was ok. I would rationalize it in a “If I’ve got a girl like that I can’t be too big of an asshole” sort of way. She was an element on my life that I felt I had a grip on. Shit for a while she was the reason why I shaved. She never knew because I never told her. I never told her because I didn’t know either. I can’t worry about that now though.
I think of her at the oddest moments. While in the break room taking that tentative first sip of coffee, wondering again what Heather puts in hers that makes it so tasty. Tasty like a dessert. Earthy and sweet. Sweet like her.
“If he doesn’t have the decency to call you back after you call him then he isn’t worthy of your attention girl! Calling him a bunch, chasing him like he’s something special gives him the feeling that he’s the best you can do!”
“Two young professionals behind me last week. It seemed for women the relationship game was a power struggle. A contest of worthiness hidden behind planned smiles, little favors and reading a million little cues correctly. Secret character pop quizzes. Last week while listening to the two ladies I concluded for men the relationship came was about finding treasure. For me it was about holding on to my treasure in a foreign marketplace full of whispering pirates. For some of my friends it was a mission to feel her insides before she found out too much about the explorer. Of course she had to know something about the person to consider them worthy and that was the game. To be a marksman, aiming for the spot between knowing enough and knowing too much.
In the café I feel like a cup being filled. That is how I chatted so effortlessly with Heather about chakra alignment the first time we met. I didn’t know anything about chakras and I blamed it on growing up protestant. I was able to infer and mime knowledge based on the information she casually dropped and crap from tv. I wish I could on this ‘empty cup mode’ whenever I wanted. I wish I could turn myself off more often.
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