Genev

The streets were gray and gold as I plodded through the drear of the morning crowd. Routine. Skip breakfast. Take quick shower. Purchase newspaper. And now coffee shop. Waitress. Ughh. I should have known that it would be raining. It was always raining. After so many showers one stops watching the weather. So, my slippered feet sloshed on the slick streets. I loved to wear ballet shoes, not the stiff toed slippers, of course. I felt like I was walking through my house, the city and the world were a comfortable castle. If I could have gotten away with it I would have worn pajamas to work. I didn't like the coffee shop people, even the morning routine crowd. I could have been one of them, slicing a bagel, drinking my coffee, smoking and pretending to read the paper. I still didn't like them. Most people bothered me anyway. If I had to talk to one of them it was always a nervous exchange, with me nodding my head and agreeing with everything said, so as to avoid actual conflict. Waiting on the coffee people. I hated my job, but I had had experience serving the masses in my father's restaurant at home. And I really needed a job when I came to Seattle. I didn't like that cost of living thing.

Slosh and shuffle. That morning I was without bike and umbrella. I had started out well intended with a long velvet skirt and a wool sweater, presentable cafe clothes. However, by the time I pushed through all the people and closed out the cold drizzle I stood in the dark cafe against the door with shimmers of rain drops in my tight red curls water falling from the tip of my nose, eyes closed. Another day. And they trusted me to open this place. I sat the newspaper down behind the register. If I worked quickily I could read it before the others began to arrive. I liked working in the morning for the simple reason that all is still and quiet, there was a sort of sanctity in the empty cafe vivace. We did not open until ten o'clock on week days. My classes did not begin until four o'clock, but on this day I had other intentions. I craved the library. I spent most of my waking hours in the narrow towering aisels of books. The Universtiy library was like a microcosm of Paris, claustrophobic with jumbles of stairs and books, desks, and wet windows that never shut properly. I could not function that morning. I could not even begin to start the coffee, take the chairs from the table, replace yesterdays bagels. Instead I crouched in the floor with my newspaper and began to read in the small amount of light that collected behing the counter. Yesterday's rush hour wreck had made the front page. It was somebody everyday. This guy Claude had survived, but he was in a coma. The fucking drivers in this city. I was content not to own a car. I was never in such a hurry that I could not bike or walk to my destination. It probably helped that I rarely left my central location. I kept to myself most days. Somedays I wouldn't speak at all. It was always just me and I had no one really important to talk to, besides the crucial small talk at work.

Somehow I managed that day to keep the talk minimal. Thankfully, True came into work a few minutes early and we were able to make the place presentable. She was one of the few people that I did not have severe antipathy for. We rarely spoke, but I felt that she sort of understood me more so than others. She was always analyzing and philosophizing, but not to the point of irratation. At least, she did not try to dissect me.

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