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A few months after I started working at the Café, and way before Tracina stole his heart, Will hinted that he could get tickets for a coveted show at the jazz festival. At first, I thought he was going to tell me about a girlfriend he was getting the tickets for, but as it turned out, it was me he wanted to go with. I felt a flash of panic at the invitation.
“So … you’re asking if I’ll go out with you?”
“Uh … yes.” There was that look again, and for a second I thought I even saw hurt flicker through his eyes. “Front row, Cassie. Come on. It’s a good excuse to put on a dress. I’ve never seen you in a dress, come to think of it.”
I knew then that I had to shut it down. I couldn’t date. I couldn’t date him. My boss. There was no way I wanted to lose a job I actually liked for a man who would, when he spent a bit of time with me, see just how dull I really was. Also, the man was way out of my league. I was paralyzed with fear and the prospect of being alone with him, outside the context of our working relationship.
“You haven’t seen me in a dress because I don’t own one,” I said.
Not true. I just couldn’t imagine putting one on. Will was quiet for a few seconds, wiping his hands on his apron.
“No big deal,” he said. “Lots of people want to see this band.”
“Will, look. I think being married to such a wreck for so many years might have rendered me kind of … undatable,” I said, sounding like a late-night radio psychologist.
“That’s a nice way of saying, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ ”
“But it is me. It is.”
I rested my hand on his forearm.
“I guess I’ll just ask the next attractive girl I hire,” he joked.
And he did. He asked the stunning Tracina from Texarkana, with the Southern accent and the endless legs. She had a younger brother with autism who she fiercely cared for, and she owned more cowboy boots than any one person needs. She was hired for the early evening shift, and though she was always a little cool towards me, we got along well enough and she seemed to make Will happy. Saying good-night to him became doubly lonely because I knew he’d probably be spending the night at Tracina’s instead of upstairs at the Café. Not that I was jealous. How could I be jealous? Tracina was exactly the kind of girl Will should be with—funny, smart and sexy. She had perfect cocoa-colored skin. Sometimes she’d let her afro go wild like a mound of cotton candy, and sometimes she’d expertly tame it into cool braids. Tracina was sought after. Tracina was vivacious. Tracina fit in and belonged. I simply did not.
That night, the notebook still warming my front pocket, I watched Tracina set up for the dinner crowd. It was the first time I admitted I actually was a little jealous of her. Not because she had Will. I was jealous of how she made her way around the room with such ease and appeal. Some women had that thing, that ability to insert themselves directly into life—and look so good doing it. They weren’t observers; they were in the middle of the action. They were … alive. Will asked her out and she said, “I’d love to.” No dithering, no equivocating, just a big fat yes.
I thought about the notebook, the words I had scanned, that man at the table, the way he caressed his partner’s wrist and kissed her fingers. How he fingered her bracelet, his urgency. I wished some man could feel that for me. I thought of a fistful of thick hair in my hands, my back pressed against a wall in the kitchen of the restaurant, a hand lifting my skirt. Wait a second, the man with Pauline had a shaved head. I was imagining Will’s hair, Will’s mouth …
“A penny for your thoughts,” Will said, interrupting my absurd daydream.
r /> “These ones are worth a lot more than a penny,” I said, knowing my face was shot red. Where had that come from? My shift was over. It was time to go.
“Good tips today?”
“Yeah, not bad. I gotta run, and, Will, I don’t care if you are sleeping with her. Tell Tracina to restock sugar on the table before she goes home tonight. They should be full for my breakfast shift.”
“Yes, boss,” he said, saluting me. Then, as I was heading out the door, he added, “Plans tonight?”
Catching up on TV. Recycling is piling up. What else?
“Yeah, big plans,” I said.
“You should have a date with a man, not with a cat, Cassie. You’re a lovely woman, you know.”
“Lovely? You didn’t just call me ‘lovely.’ Will, that’s what guys say to women over thirty-five who haven’t gone completely to pot but who are well on their way to romantic retirement. ‘You’re a lovely woman, but …’ ”
“But nothing. Cassie, you should get out there,” he said, jerking his chin towards the front door and beyond.
“That’s precisely where I’m headed,” I said, backing into the street and nearly getting sideswiped by a speeding cyclist.
“Cassie! Jeez!” Will lurched towards me.
“See? That’s what happens when I put myself out there. I get flattened,” I said, calming my heart and trying to laugh it off.
Will shook his head as I turned and made my way down Frenchmen. I thought I felt him standing there watching me walk away, but I was too shy to turn around and check.
Is it possible to feel really young and really old at the same time? I was bone weary as I trudged the four blocks home. I loved looking at the tired, tiny houses in my neighborhood, some leaning on each other, some coated with so many layers of paint, and ringed by so much wrought iron and festooned with so many ornate shutters that they looked like aging showgirls in costumes and stage makeup. My apartment was atop a three-story stucco block of a house on the corner of Chartres and Mandeville. It was painted pale green, with rounded arches and dark green shutters. I had the top floor, but at thirty-five I still lived like a student. My one-bedroom rental had a futon-couch, milk carton bookshelves that doubled as end tables, and a growing collection of salt-and-pepper shakers. The bedroom was in an alcove, with a wide stucco archway and three dormers that faced south. To be fair, the staircase was so narrow it prohibited big, fat furniture; everything had to be portable and bendable and foldable. As I approached my building and looked up, I realized I’d one day be too old to live on the top floor, especially if I continued to work on my feet. Some nights I was so tired, it was all I could do to heave myself up those stairs.
