The amber light reflected off the polished concrete, wiped away for a moment when my broom swept the dust clear from the floor. I moved a wooden chair, the deep brown scratched against the ground and I swept underneath there, too. My apron hugged my abdomen when I bent over, the waxed leather folding hesitant against an irregular motion. Forward on the balls of my feet, the heels on coffee stained boots lift off the ground. Through my legs I see the laces touching the floor, the crease behind the toe wrinkling the leather with a worn look. Lowering the heels, I stand using the broom as a cane. I grab the porcelain cups on the table left by the customer before my cleaning.

I cleaned when the shop went still, when the music played slow and the air swirled inside. I cleaned to keep occupied and when I cleaned I thought. I thought about my wife at home, wondering if she missed me when I went to work. I thought about the next morning, if I would be able to pick up the brush and work or sit there and stare at the canvas like I had today. I thought about my degree, a piece of paper I received a few months prior and how my apron felt heavier than my graduation gown. I thought about the friend I had seen in the shop, asking what I was up to and smiling as an answer. I couldn’t explain everything I was up to and he couldn’t care about anything I was up to. My thoughts rambled behind every sweep, the broom erasing them.

I thought about quitting and pursuing what I wanted to. I thought about being afraid and understanding that I was and that it didn’t matter but it should. I thought about choosing something different four years ago and I thought about why I couldn’t now and why I didn’t then. I thought about wishing I could sit and read again, that my 30-minute break wasn’t enough to learn from the great Saul Bellow. I thought about all these things while my body picked up the cups.

I enjoyed the job; I talked with people and made the drinks. I enjoyed the thinking it allowed me and the small hourly wage was enough to think and be present with my own thoughts for hours. I’d sketch pieces in my head and when the customer asked me a question I’d have to ask them to repeat it because I wasn’t there at that moment. I did not mind the questions, but I hated when the groups arrived. Today, the arrival of a large group cut my thinking time short. They fill the shop with voice and body heat, neutralizing the cold December air that rushed in with them. I hate them because they are a group.

A group won’t befriend the barista, a group won’t tip and a group won’t leave early. They will order the same drink, one after another after another and laugh about it like it is a funny joke.  When they laugh it rips the thought I had in half. They move the chairs with loud scrapes and put the sugar packets into their drinks after they finish. When they ask me a question it shakes me back to the body I tried to leave while it cleaned and made their drinks.

The group won’t let me think while I make the drinks and I won’t be able to ponder whether I could actually leave this place. I made the drinks and then cleaned their table. The group left to their own devices, content to make a mess and have a loud chat. I motion to my coworker I’m taking out the trash. I leave my apron in the back and gather the black bags. My sleeves rolled up to my elbows while I hold the bags tight in my left, using my right to press open the door. The crisp air stings on my cheeks and they turn red and I don’t care. I don’t feel the wind but my body does. I walk to the trash and throw it in, waiting for the metallic sound to signify the toss arrived. The shop glows amber in the night and I look up at the night sky, pleading with myself to pick up the brush in the morning and try one more time.

 

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