She turns to greet me as Olga leaves and she freezes. She seems almost flustered, like I’m a familiar face she can’t place. Picture a movie scene when two characters are introduced to one another, , but they’ve met already—and usually had sex—so there’s an awkward silence as they figure out how to proceed. This felt like that. Deja vu on her end perhaps. After a couple of seconds staring at each other, she regains her composure and snaps back into barista mode. “What can I get for you sir?”
The name tag reads Melody. Her hazel eyes aren’t as intense as the others I’ve met since I got here. They’re warm and welcoming … or maybe comforting is a better word. Either way, they’re disarming. If she looked me in the eyes and asked, I’d spill my darkest secrets.
This is an important moment of our non existent relationship; If I order some yuppie drink I’m done. My eyes linger on hers for a second too long as I draw a blank, I was so infatuated with her I never studied the menu. Why couldn’t I be one of those guys that talks smooth and knows all the right words to say? That guy is probably an asshole in every aspect of his life, but I feel like I could grow out of that.
I suddenly remember John’s refill and save face by ordering the same thing.
“I will have a…refill for John,” I say with an obvious lack of confidence, “and one of what he’s having for myself.”
Melody gives a smile of validation as she writes the orders on the cup. “Can I get a name for the cup?”
“Miles.”
It happens again. She freezes when she hears my name—more subtle than the first time, but still noticeable. Hopefully she didn’t date an asshole named Miles that I remind her of. “I love that name, it’s got a nice ring to it.”
It’s got an even nicer ring with her name next to it.
Thank God my name is in her good graces.
Now, I know that I’ve been out of the game for years, but I’m pretty sure she's flirting with me. I pay and she tells me she’ll will bring the order outside for us. I head back outside to sit with John, my mind racing with possibilities.
“Do you come here everyday?” I ask John.
“Yeah. I usually stay in places I know that have progressive ownership. I can enjoy my coffee without the stares, and the college kids are so idealistic, they leave me be. You from around here?”
“No, just came here on a whim.”
“To New York or to this coffee shop?”
“Both.”
John chews on this for a moment. He seems to sense that there is more to me, but is content with my answer for now. Melody comes out with our drinks.
“Morning darling,” John greets her as she puts the drinks on the table. John, clearly a regular, banters with Melody like they’re two old friends that ran into each other by chance. As she talks, she places one hand on his shoulder with the other on her hip. I watch silently as tells her a joke and she collapses her head on his shoulder to laugh. She trusts John, probably because he doesn’t gawk at her like the others in the line and, in turn, he trusts her because she sees him as more than a homeless person. I imagine that she’s spent many breaks out here with John and if there is an “in” with her, it’ll be through him.
“Melody, have you met Miles?”
“Yeah, I took his order.”
“He’s here on a whim, a real free spirit.”
She looks at me with the same compassion as she did when I ordered. Her eyes are apologizing for John’s forwardness, and it dawns on me that I’m being pimped out by a homeless person. To ease the tension I pick up my cup to take a drink and notice that there’s a number written on it—no name, no clue, just a number.
“Well John, thank you for caring but I can handle it myself,” She turns to walk back into the shop, but stops at the door and turns back to us, “Besides, I didn't have to come out here,” she says, giving me a smile.
I immediately excuse myself to call Dr. Felt, who answers on the second ring.
“The prodigal client returns,” she answers.
“Spare me. My first contact with Lily went terrible.”
“How bad?” she asks, a bit too cheerfully in my opinion.
“Mitt Romney speaking in front of the NAACP bad.”
Dr. Felt erupts into laughter, “I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing at the comparison.”
“That’s really not helping.”
“Ok. What did you think was gonna happen, Miles?”
I stay silent, unsure if it’s a rhetorical question and she continues.
“You made contact, so the hardest part is out of the way. Did she say anything that stuck out to you?”
I hum into the phone, recalling our conversation, “She said that we’re even now… right before she left.”
“That’s an interesting way to say goodbye, don’t you think?” she points out, “Instead of saying she didn’t wanna see you again, she highlighted that you guys are ‘even’… sounds to me like she’s been waiting for you, but plans to make you work for it.”
“You’re saying if we’re even, I should try again … because technically, we’ve both been hurt by one another?”
I can hear Dr. Felt clapping through the phone. “Look at you, digging beneath the surface,” she says. “She left you at what she thought was your weakest moment—returning the favor—so now it’s a game of stamina. Keep pulling at the sweater and eventually you’ll find a thread.”
No longer feeling like a failure, I tell her about Melody and the phone number on my coffee cup. She congratulates me like a proud parent.
“Miles, that’s progress.”
Only in a fucked up profession like psychiatry, can a widower calling his therapist and talking about a woman that isn’t his deceased wife be considered “progress.”
“I think going on a date would be healthy for you,” she sounds like a doctor telling me I’m pre-diabetic, and I should change my diet, “You’re going to have to start dating eventually, why not start in a place that’ll allow you to slide back into the crowd if it goes wrong?”
“Because, I’m married …” I trail off.
“Miles …” she says, trying to find a way to remind me I’m a widower, without being an asshole about it, “It’s just a cup of coffee or a drink, I’m not telling you to take her to the courthouse.”
She has a point, though I hate myself for acknowledging it. At some point, life goes on but it still feels like cheating. I suspect this feeling never goes away. Like getting a tooth pulled, the hole will always be there reminding me of what was once there, but still allowing me to have a “normal” existence.
With Melody, the first feeling wasn’t lust. It was the sense that I’d found someone who had scars of their own and would understand mine. Grief grants almost a sixth sense for detecting the struggles of another person and the belief that, by throwing yourself into their problems, you can bury your own issues and cleanse yourself of the regret you carry.
“So, I should call her?”
“Yes, even if it doesn't go anywhere, you have to start the healing process.”