// creative //
Fall 2016
Cafe Called Earth
Lani Allen
1
Today wasn’t a good day. The lady beside me had covered her face with a thick layer of clay. It sat in the pores of her cheeks, in the nooks about her nose ring. This week the ring has been bothering her, so she pushed out her chair, scraped the floor, stood up, walked to the bathroom, and took it out. She came out with a friendly little red dot above her nostril. Don’t ask me why though I don’t know. And she probably had some dark circles beneath her armpits from struggling to scoop her pants over her buttocks this morning in her bedroom.
Three times she tugged, and on the second she tore the fabric where the belt loop attached to the waist of her pink jeans. Soft skin seeped through the hole as she sat at one of those high tables.
“I’ll just have two sugars, thanks” she informed the barista, regarding her coffee.
2
I lifted to inspect for dried spots of urine. I scrubbed three off with the single-ply paper, sure I scraped clean all of the crust from the plastic; satisfied, I lowered myself onto it, ready and prepared for the slow release of weight from below my belly button. I’ll tell you, I was more interested in the speckles of the bathroom stall than the size 12 red creased flats of the person beside me. I could tell they were new, recently ruined by the pressure of dancing with alcohol in her blood. She had given into the words of her tall, thin friend, and now a dry beer stain had settled on the heel of her shoe. We exited the stalls together. Her shoes did not match her shirt.
Trying to hold the phone to her ear, it slipped from between her cheek and shoulder, into the sink and under the running faucet. Her eyes closed; she turned off the water.
“Shit.” She had been talking to her tall, thin friend.
3
His one step covered a distance equal to two of mine. Toes, crooked and bent, sat beneath year-old New Balance sneakers, pushing against the top fabric, making ridges like mountains in white. He walked forward, but also up and down. If he ever cheated on his wife it would have been a long time ago that he had felt another woman’s breasts in his mouth, the warmth between her thighs. This other woman never drank alcohol––well, except for a little taste of champagne, but only during fancy brunches.
He and his wife sipped on their tea across from one another. They had grown accustomed to the other’s silent, antagonistic company. I witnessed a habit-inspired, slightly diagonal kiss with old, wet lips that signaled to everyone else that they were married. Three foggy, cheese stained diamonds on her left hand told me their marriage was old and rotten and mean and sour.
“Jim (jeyum), she wouldn’t do that.”
“No, no I saw it.” His eyes, reflecting the light off corrected cataracts, looked away. Fingers with swollen knuckles (arthritis) scratched his bald scalp. “Didn’t she tell you?”
Her bottom hurt, bones digging through loose, swimming muscles and into the metal seat. No response prompted the movement of her stained teeth.
4
He looked at me. Chin intentionally dimpled, brows furrowed under transparent sunglasses. He liked cats. What?
Blinking 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13 and he had crossed the street. Before, though, he sat right next to a girl, Chinese, self-obsessed, nails painted, jewelry cheap and green-skin inducing. He liked her for her cat dress; I know it. It had divots in its fabric like crinkled Lays potato chips. I’m sure he wanted a taste, or maybe he saw the snuggling cats sticker on the back of her phone. “Meow,” said her outfit. It drew him in.
Her smile revealed crooked teeth that, in the most recent picture she’d posted, her lips carefully concealed.
The back of the chair pushed up his cologne-penetrated polo at the back, and I saw scrunched yellow boxers whose fabric had migrated from his cheeks into his crack. When he eventually stood up, he adopted a shifting contrapposto; he wanted that fabric O-U-T out. By now his hand was on the potato chip dress. I left to buy myself some, but not before I heard:
“Take my right hand… lead me to where the cats are.”
5
Think about running your hands through that man’s greasy hair. Think about what your fingers would touch if the hairs were thin atop his aged head, long and reaching all the way towards bony shoulders. Take the palm of your hand and rub it across the forehead beneath the hair. It will come away looking shiny, too.
Remove the glasses. Clean them on your shirt and then put them back on. At about the bottom of his chin it begins to get rough. Rub back and forth; get those fingertips a little raw. Tell him he needs to shave, right then and there.
Use those fingers to move up towards his eyes, to touch the delicate, pulpous bags beneath them; pushing down too hard would hurt him, and also make you feel his eyeballs so don’t do that. He seemed sad to me, so he doesn’t need that, okay?
His jacket came from the place near his house, the one that the woman wearing maroon lipstick and headphones didn’t like at all. She didn’t like it, but he also got his undershirt and flannel there, too. She didn’t talk to him the whole time they were here together. She had her headphones in, her hoodie up and covering them.
The man’s hair is still greasy: “I like this prosciutto, mm.”
6
My bread had an egg on it, hard boiled, cut in half, white meat out so that I could see. I remember how the frog eggs in the pond looked like those little pomegranate seeds that you pop in your mouth and squeeze to let the juice run over your tongue. Then you’d get to the hard part on the inside, in the middle. I guess in this case that would be the baby tadpole, except probably not as hard as a seed. Kind of squishy, actually, when one fell out of the cup and between my fingers then ‘plop’ back in the water. It looked like we had a good 50 little pomegranate seeds sitting in daddy’s oversized OJ cup. Class that Monday had been show and tell and Mrs. W said that I could bring these in to make new class pets we could watch. When they did get all grown up only two made it to having all four legs and a hopping ability. The rest became half-frogs and died when we tried to switch their home again.
There’s more on eggs, though.
When my grandpa took me on the back porch one time I squeezed my toes in because of the dry, pokey surface of the deck. I didn’t like it dry. A splinter nestled itself into the inside of my big toe, but I didn’t see it until after he walked around and showed me the blue bird eggs in the birdhouses that sprinkled the whole backyard. Shaking the box wouldn’t wake them up, he told me, but the mama would come out of the hole in the front and maybe not come back. I tucked my sweaty hands behind my shirt so he knew I wasn’t gonna touch the eggs or anything.
7
She walked in and smiled politely at nobody in particular. I imagine that’s what she looked like as a kid, trying to please her parents when they were at the grocery store and told her to be quiet and not make a peep. Smile and turn, chin up, pleasant and silent. I saw her break her mouth’s peaceful form only to order a small latte with half and half. When the cashier nodded to acknowledge her order, she replied with the smile, handing him money. I was sure her teeth were pretty, but I didn’t see them. They likely hung nice and long, round, bone-white, shiny, like that. She wouldn’t show them to me. That milk would make the coffee stick to their small, bumpy ridges, nestling in in the warmth that was her perpetually closed, smiling mouth.
Her lips said, over and over: “Forgive me for I have sinned… I have sinned and look at me smile.” She turned and I saw her teeth.
8
Pale skin matched pale shirt which matched small eyes and a big nose. His leg was tapping under the table like the dog wagging at his side, so much that he shook the water in his cup when he brought it to his mouth to drink it. All finished, he watched the skinny lady across from him rub the small rash on her neck. Then, reaching behind his ear, she adjusted the greasy strand of wavy, black hair once or twice or three times. He took his hand and brought her head towards his, she tucked her hand behind his head, they closed their eyes. Consider the dog, please?
The rain from last night made the seats slightly damp. They sat on their chairs, warmer towards the front because that was how they were leaning. They held their necks, eyelids closed, eyelashes quivering, for two minutes. I begged them to stop the invisible transfer of brainwaves I was witnessing. They were out on the patio. People could see this.
When they separated, the tops of their foreheads bore two red circles, hotter than the rest of them. His was still paler.
“I love you.” He bit into his $13.95 panini and some pesto slipped out.
Today wasn’t a good day. The lady beside me had covered her face with a thick layer of clay. It sat in the pores of her cheeks, in the nooks about her nose ring. This week the ring has been bothering her, so she pushed out her chair, scraped the floor, stood up, walked to the bathroom, and took it out. She came out with a friendly little red dot above her nostril. Don’t ask me why though I don’t know. And she probably had some dark circles beneath her armpits from struggling to scoop her pants over her buttocks this morning in her bedroom.
Three times she tugged, and on the second she tore the fabric where the belt loop attached to the waist of her pink jeans. Soft skin seeped through the hole as she sat at one of those high tables.
“I’ll just have two sugars, thanks” she informed the barista, regarding her coffee.
2
I lifted to inspect for dried spots of urine. I scrubbed three off with the single-ply paper, sure I scraped clean all of the crust from the plastic; satisfied, I lowered myself onto it, ready and prepared for the slow release of weight from below my belly button. I’ll tell you, I was more interested in the speckles of the bathroom stall than the size 12 red creased flats of the person beside me. I could tell they were new, recently ruined by the pressure of dancing with alcohol in her blood. She had given into the words of her tall, thin friend, and now a dry beer stain had settled on the heel of her shoe. We exited the stalls together. Her shoes did not match her shirt.
Trying to hold the phone to her ear, it slipped from between her cheek and shoulder, into the sink and under the running faucet. Her eyes closed; she turned off the water.
“Shit.” She had been talking to her tall, thin friend.
3
His one step covered a distance equal to two of mine. Toes, crooked and bent, sat beneath year-old New Balance sneakers, pushing against the top fabric, making ridges like mountains in white. He walked forward, but also up and down. If he ever cheated on his wife it would have been a long time ago that he had felt another woman’s breasts in his mouth, the warmth between her thighs. This other woman never drank alcohol––well, except for a little taste of champagne, but only during fancy brunches.
He and his wife sipped on their tea across from one another. They had grown accustomed to the other’s silent, antagonistic company. I witnessed a habit-inspired, slightly diagonal kiss with old, wet lips that signaled to everyone else that they were married. Three foggy, cheese stained diamonds on her left hand told me their marriage was old and rotten and mean and sour.
“Jim (jeyum), she wouldn’t do that.”
“No, no I saw it.” His eyes, reflecting the light off corrected cataracts, looked away. Fingers with swollen knuckles (arthritis) scratched his bald scalp. “Didn’t she tell you?”
Her bottom hurt, bones digging through loose, swimming muscles and into the metal seat. No response prompted the movement of her stained teeth.
4
He looked at me. Chin intentionally dimpled, brows furrowed under transparent sunglasses. He liked cats. What?
Blinking 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13 and he had crossed the street. Before, though, he sat right next to a girl, Chinese, self-obsessed, nails painted, jewelry cheap and green-skin inducing. He liked her for her cat dress; I know it. It had divots in its fabric like crinkled Lays potato chips. I’m sure he wanted a taste, or maybe he saw the snuggling cats sticker on the back of her phone. “Meow,” said her outfit. It drew him in.
Her smile revealed crooked teeth that, in the most recent picture she’d posted, her lips carefully concealed.
The back of the chair pushed up his cologne-penetrated polo at the back, and I saw scrunched yellow boxers whose fabric had migrated from his cheeks into his crack. When he eventually stood up, he adopted a shifting contrapposto; he wanted that fabric O-U-T out. By now his hand was on the potato chip dress. I left to buy myself some, but not before I heard:
“Take my right hand… lead me to where the cats are.”
5
Think about running your hands through that man’s greasy hair. Think about what your fingers would touch if the hairs were thin atop his aged head, long and reaching all the way towards bony shoulders. Take the palm of your hand and rub it across the forehead beneath the hair. It will come away looking shiny, too.
Remove the glasses. Clean them on your shirt and then put them back on. At about the bottom of his chin it begins to get rough. Rub back and forth; get those fingertips a little raw. Tell him he needs to shave, right then and there.
Use those fingers to move up towards his eyes, to touch the delicate, pulpous bags beneath them; pushing down too hard would hurt him, and also make you feel his eyeballs so don’t do that. He seemed sad to me, so he doesn’t need that, okay?
His jacket came from the place near his house, the one that the woman wearing maroon lipstick and headphones didn’t like at all. She didn’t like it, but he also got his undershirt and flannel there, too. She didn’t talk to him the whole time they were here together. She had her headphones in, her hoodie up and covering them.
The man’s hair is still greasy: “I like this prosciutto, mm.”
6
My bread had an egg on it, hard boiled, cut in half, white meat out so that I could see. I remember how the frog eggs in the pond looked like those little pomegranate seeds that you pop in your mouth and squeeze to let the juice run over your tongue. Then you’d get to the hard part on the inside, in the middle. I guess in this case that would be the baby tadpole, except probably not as hard as a seed. Kind of squishy, actually, when one fell out of the cup and between my fingers then ‘plop’ back in the water. It looked like we had a good 50 little pomegranate seeds sitting in daddy’s oversized OJ cup. Class that Monday had been show and tell and Mrs. W said that I could bring these in to make new class pets we could watch. When they did get all grown up only two made it to having all four legs and a hopping ability. The rest became half-frogs and died when we tried to switch their home again.
There’s more on eggs, though.
When my grandpa took me on the back porch one time I squeezed my toes in because of the dry, pokey surface of the deck. I didn’t like it dry. A splinter nestled itself into the inside of my big toe, but I didn’t see it until after he walked around and showed me the blue bird eggs in the birdhouses that sprinkled the whole backyard. Shaking the box wouldn’t wake them up, he told me, but the mama would come out of the hole in the front and maybe not come back. I tucked my sweaty hands behind my shirt so he knew I wasn’t gonna touch the eggs or anything.
7
She walked in and smiled politely at nobody in particular. I imagine that’s what she looked like as a kid, trying to please her parents when they were at the grocery store and told her to be quiet and not make a peep. Smile and turn, chin up, pleasant and silent. I saw her break her mouth’s peaceful form only to order a small latte with half and half. When the cashier nodded to acknowledge her order, she replied with the smile, handing him money. I was sure her teeth were pretty, but I didn’t see them. They likely hung nice and long, round, bone-white, shiny, like that. She wouldn’t show them to me. That milk would make the coffee stick to their small, bumpy ridges, nestling in in the warmth that was her perpetually closed, smiling mouth.
Her lips said, over and over: “Forgive me for I have sinned… I have sinned and look at me smile.” She turned and I saw her teeth.
8
Pale skin matched pale shirt which matched small eyes and a big nose. His leg was tapping under the table like the dog wagging at his side, so much that he shook the water in his cup when he brought it to his mouth to drink it. All finished, he watched the skinny lady across from him rub the small rash on her neck. Then, reaching behind his ear, she adjusted the greasy strand of wavy, black hair once or twice or three times. He took his hand and brought her head towards his, she tucked her hand behind his head, they closed their eyes. Consider the dog, please?
The rain from last night made the seats slightly damp. They sat on their chairs, warmer towards the front because that was how they were leaning. They held their necks, eyelids closed, eyelashes quivering, for two minutes. I begged them to stop the invisible transfer of brainwaves I was witnessing. They were out on the patio. People could see this.
When they separated, the tops of their foreheads bore two red circles, hotter than the rest of them. His was still paler.
“I love you.” He bit into his $13.95 panini and some pesto slipped out.
\\LANI ALLEN is a junior in Columbia College and Deputy Creative Editor for The Current. She can be reached at [email protected].