Misery's Café

            It was three-o-clock on a Tuesday. Misery shuffled away from the brightness and bustle of the city into the café. The sound of the bell in the doorway signaled her arrival, and her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The muted sounds of fellow coffee drinkers released the tension in her shoulders. The chalk letter C of the familiar font on the menu was still smudged from last week. She found solace in the cashier’s friendly smile and, “Hi, what can I get you today?”

            She hummed the same old tune from every week as she walked to her corner table. Every Tuesday, she found herself at the same café from when she got off work until closing. Tuesdays were the only days she could get home early, but she never did. Her notepad and laptop sat on the round wooden table, primarily untouched. Rather than complete work outside of the office, she observed. She didn’t know what it was that she looked for, but every day she waited to see if she could find it. She sat at her corner table as the afternoon faded into dusk until she told the barista, “See you next week, Johnny.”

            First, there were a few customers that ordered drinks before five. She never kept track of the drinks they ordered or who they were. They were seldom regulars. The faces of the pre-rush customers blurred together. The true focus was the bored barista who made their lattes, cappuccinos, and espresso shots, all while staring at the clock. All she wanted was for the ancient cogs to speed up. She imagined time being less a relative concept and more like the cars speeding through traffic past the big glass windows in the front of the café. And then, while the little hand was on the four, the big hand hit the six, and she was out the back door. If Misery craned her neck right, she could see small wisps of smoke drifting by the round window. The barista’s ten-minute break sped by quicker than her entire shift. Somehow, the nicotine left her even less relaxed. Then it was five-o-clock, and she was gone, blending into the crowd of pedestrians, “Excuse me, sorry,” anxious to make her way home.

            With the rush hour came the tidal wave of conversations. Then the familiar faces filled the dim room. One woman sat at the table right underneath the concert poster, facing the windows. Her jacket matched her boots sometimes, but her smile did not always match her eyes. The face across from her was different every week, although their banter was always the same. Sometimes Misery caught her eye when she excused herself to use the bathroom, and she saw how quickly her smile fell flat off her face and slid onto the shiny industrial floor. Then she walked back to the table to finish the rest of her Caramel Macchiato, and there was sometimes hugging and always, “I’ll definitely call you!”

            There were the students that sat at the high tables with the outlets. Misery heard the clicking and clacking of ballpoint pens and keyboard keys. Sometimes she heard soft curses and saw eye rolls. One student stayed precisely an hour and forty minutes every week. His headphones covered his ears, his hoodie covered his face, and his coffee covered the surface of his notebook one day. That was the only time he left early, even though the barista offered him a free cup, “I’m so sorry, dude.” But he'd already stood up and packed everything, checked his watch, and saw that he had only been there an hour.

            The man in the suit always ordered a steaming cup of coffee with cream but no sugar. When he sat down and thought nobody was looking, he added it to his drink. Misery always averted her eyes when he looked over at her table, so he could continue upholding the façade of his sugarless appetite. The color of his suit varied, but his tie was always a deep wine color, the color of strength, power, and determination. These types of people never stopped working. His phone rang and rang the entire time he was there. He never had much time to enjoy his drink, so his tongue was scalded every week when he swallowed three painkillers. He chuckled to the barista as he walked out the door, “Man, that’s one hot cup-o-joe.”

She always laughed when the sleepy girl gave into her dreams. She ordered an Iced Latte and started reading a book. She never sat at a table, instead, she went to the darkest corner with the red booths to curl into the back of the seat. Her hair framed her face, and her glasses slid onto the table after she nodded off. Misery imagined that she dreamed of being a singer, or a fashion designer, or maybe having a kitchen with world-class chefs in her command. But then, when she walked by and noticed the tear stains reflecting the moisture sweating off the melting ice in her drink, it occurred to Misery that the girl might be having nightmares instead of dreams. When her ringtone woke her up, she wiped her face as she lied, “I’m actually almost there.” She glanced at her half-finished cup before she ordered another highly caffeinated drink. Misery hoped this one worked and helped the girl stay focused on keeping her eyes open.

            A group of people usually came in around seven when the dim lighting inside was starting to match outside. There were a few customers who chatted with the baristas but sat alone. Some were friends and sat together. They asked each other about their cats, co-workers, and annoying plants that never seemed to get enough sunlight. Once, Misery overheard one ask another, “How’s your husband?” The woman was embarrassed to find out her friend had been recently divorced. Somehow, she had either forgotten or not been told at all. So, they stuck to the small details, never really finding out the big ones to save themselves the headache. It was always easier to feel lonely together.

            There was one family she hoped to see every week, but their visits happened as often as shooting stars. One time, the little girl named Alina introduced herself to Misery. It was nighttime, but the girl’s eyes were brighter than every light in the room. Her eyes were magnetic. Misery had only ever seen that brilliance in one other little girl, one who was long gone. The family always sat together, filling the empty spaces of the tables around them. Their conversations were musical, harmonizing with the tunes softly emanating from the speakers. Misery loved hearing how their laughter meshed, how easy they were together.

The last time she saw them was during a summer storm. They had rushed in; Misery found out they took the bus home and didn’t want to wait outside at the bus stop. The electricity was off in the building. The usual sound of the whirring coffee machines was replaced by the squeak of wet shoes on the floor. She was scrambling for a flashlight when she bumped into Alina and knocked her over. The family helped her find it under a table as she kept apologizing, and Alina told her not to worry, “Everybody’s looking for some light.” Every Tuesday, she thought about that when she didn’t see them and wondered if they ever made it home safe. She hoped that Alina’s family didn’t avoid going home, hoped that they were together and happy. She hoped that their family never lost the light that Alina brought to their lives.