by Geoff Gouveia

The coffee shop hums, a modern day port with metallic buzzes. The refrigerator and espresso machine mount in unison, climbing above the speakers playing music. Chairs scuffle and the tables creak. The tables are all occupied save for one. A press of the door from the outside, the artificial wind rushes to keep out the flies. In walks a man in a frumpy business suit.

His head shines through thin shaved hair. He is neither thin nor plump, but the suit cuts off too high on the neck. His red face betrays the true cool weather outside. A loud bang of a folder on the table, he enters the line to order.

Following behind him an older, plumper gentleman in a nicer suit sets his binder down near the strewn folder. A woman in a simple black dress, fit for a funeral, looks somber down at the seat she pulls to recline in. She checks her phone and then stares at the wall. Her eyes are empty decorations against a stone surface.

The red-faced man returns with a latte. The milk spills over the side of the cup onto the saucer. He falls into the seat with a crash. The cup clatters against the wooden table and more milk sloshes over the side. He napkins the escaped liquid with quick, sweeping motions. The woman shifts her weight to the left as he gazes through her.

“Why won’t you look at me? Why won’t you look at me and talk?”

No response prompts his lean towards the plump elder man.

“Fine. You. Listen to me. You tell her. She’s the mother of our children. I want to make this work.”

“My client does not want to talk with you at this moment, Ron.”

“Look, Fred, just ask her what happened to being together.” Ron’s eyes pan across Fred towards the woman, sitting adjacent with eyes on the floor. She shifts her weight and tilts her head to the side. 

“Good question. I’m just the client now,” she musters with as much sass as necessary for the occasion.

“Alright. I messed up. I messed up in life. I messed up as a husband to you, Melinda. But as a father-”

“Yes, as a father,too-” 

Ron’s voice escalates. “No. Listen. No. I was a good fath-”

Melinda forces a fake laugh. “You? Good?” 

“Alright, alright. Give me a minute with my client. Leave your stuff there. Just settle down. Sit down. Sit down, Ron.”

Fred and Melinda leave the table. They walk past a woman nursing a child alone in the corner. Her back is to the wall and only a thin navy checkered blanket protects the intimate scene. She looks up when a loud slam breaks the coffee city rhythm. It is Ron’s fist through an open binder onto a highlighted page next to an idle iPhone.

Ron cracks his neck sharp left and then back to the right. A nervous arm reaches out past the cuff. The time on his wrist forces him to close his eyes. Twitching, the eyelids are thin veils for the constant bulging behind them. The door opens from the outside. Fred motions with both hands, palms to the ground, as he nears the table.

“Alright, Ron. I’ve talked with Melinda. You know you can’t have full visitation because-”

“The hell I can’t! I’m tryin’. Look, I’m trying. I’m trying to make this work. But she-” 

Melinda whips her eyes from the floor, red and raging towards Ron. “Yeah? You should’ve tried harder to make this work with me. You should’ve stayed away from her.” Her voice is a wave rising on stayed and crashing on her.

“Oh wow, here we go again. You can’t-” Ron points a finger at Melinda. He holds it over his head, a signal that he is drowning.

Fred rescues him. “Come back, let’s bring it back.” 

“I don’t understand. I’m the father. How are you going to say I’m not trying as a father?” 

“Father’s stay. Where were you-”

“You know where I was! Why are we here? You won’t let it go.”

“I don’t want you to see them.” 

“What? It restarts, you know that? You know damn well my relationship with the boys restarts when I don’t see them.” Ron’s voice begins above water and ends below it. Only bubbles above the surface as he struggles to hold his breath. Closed eyes accept the situation.

The coffee shop continues its buzz. From the counter, the line of people swirls around the meeting like a riptide. The nursing mother finishes. The child fusses in her right arm while her left hand, sans jewelry, gathers the belongings. Fred watches the mother leave with a blank expression. Another minute passes and he sighs.

“Ok, OK. Melinda, Ron- Let’s connect tomorrow, yeah?”

Ron nods his head and Melinda rolls her eyes. The only audible response to his request is the metallic doldrums of the working mechanical units in the shop.

No one watches them leave.

 

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