Jazz Lounge Mystery

Each evening at the same time, 7:00, she entered the cafe.

Not early. Not late.

Always 7:00.

No one at first paid attention.

And why would they?

The cafe experienced that home rush hour fog--chairs rubbing against the floor, spoons striking porcelain cups, low-key laughter banging off loud conversations. Laptops glowed. Phones buzzed. Waiters went as clock-work, shouldering their way through the narrow passages with the practiced skill of robins.

It was a spot where people went by.

It was no school of theirs.

So she blended in.

At least, in the beginning.

She never stopped at the door. Waltzed around the room like strangers do. No faltering in her walk, no doubt in her eyes.

She came in as though she had been there before.

Because she did.

Straight to Table 7.

Same seat.

On the same corner on the window.

The chair was facing the door.

Always that one.

It made no difference whether it had been stolen by another person--although oddly enough nobody ever did. Not really. When a person sat there before 7:00, they would get away in a few minutes. No reason. Only an urgent moment, a forgotten engagement, an unfinished thought that is distracting them.

And the clock had struck 7:00--

The vacancy would be filled up once more.

Waiting.

For her.

She would sit down, and stroke the edge of the table with her fingers--once, twice--as though she were establishing herself in something real.

then the waiter would come.

Or rather—

He would be there already.

As he ceased inquiring after the third day.

Black coffee.

No sugar.

No milk.

No variation.

He would put it in front of her and leave without saying anything, and she would nod, just a little, as though it were a part of a habit that neither of them needed to speak about.

The steam twisted out of the cup in little twists, and was blown away before any one could truly see it.

She did not ever touch it on the spot.

That was the other thing.

She always waited.

Not long.

No more than enough to be intentional.

then gradually she would raise the cup, and take a sip, and put it into the very position it was in before--directly against the edge of the table.

All about her was exact.

Measured.

Intentional.

But it was the coffee that was not the strangest thing.

It wasn’t the routine.

It wasn’t even Table 7.

It was this—

She never used her phone.

Not once.

No scrolling.

No messages.

No calls.

No idle distractions.

She was outside of it in a room where all the rest of the people were apparently chained to the glowing screens.

She was like of another time.

Or maybe—

A different rhythm.

She just sat there.

Quietly.

Watching nothing.

And everything.

She would even look out the window at times, and her image would blend with the lights of the city just starting to twinkle outside. On other occasions her eyes were fixed in the middle distance--indefinitely out of focus, as though she saw something not discerned by others.

But now and then--

As the door of the cafe opened--

Her eyes would be raised.

Not quickly.

Not sharply.

But deliberately.

She had been anticipating just that.

Her expression did not show any interest.

No surprise.

Only something quieter.

Something heavier.

Expectation.

No the sort that people feel when they meet a new person.

No.

This was different.

That was the sort of a glance you have when you wait until you know the person--

A time waster.

But not for the first time.

The bell above the door would ring softly.

Some stranger would come in.

and half a second--

Her eyes would tell.

Searching.

Measuring.

Hoping.

Then—

Nothing.

The door was closed.

The time would come.

And her eyes would go round to the cup once more.

Like it always did.

Like it had to.

The waiter was the first to notice.

Not that he was especially shy.

but that due to the monotony of things patterns cannot be disregarded.

She was just another customer on Day One.

On the second day she was known.

By the Third, she was. something different.

A misfitting thing.

He began to clock it.

Not intentionally.

At least, that is what he reasoned to himself.

At the end of the week, however, he did not have to consult the clock any more.

He could feel it.

It was no longer a time at 7:00.

It was a moment.

And she was of it.

He started to make her coffee a minute early.

Just in case.

Not that she had ever complained.

She never complained.

She barely spoke.

But there was something about her presence that would make people want to get things right.

Perfectly right.

And even when she did not request it.

Particularly, where she had not inquired.

Something was different on the seventh day.

It was small.

So little that nobody saw.

But he did.

Because by then—

He was watching.

She walked in at 7:00.

As always.

Same steps.

Same table.

Same silence.

The coffee arrived.

She nodded.

All this happened in the way it was supposed to happen.

Until the door opened.

The bell rang.

She looked up.

And first of all--

She did not turn her head at once.

Her gaze remained riveted on the door.

Longer than usual.

Too long.

The walking man paused, only a little, as though he were feeling something--as though he were entering a room that had been prepared to receive him.

But that he shook off.

He turned and saw a vacant table and passed by her without even considering it a second.

Her eyes trailed after him.

Not obviously.

But enough.

Waiter take notice.

Something to feel. off.

And then—

She smiled.

Just barely.

A little, hardly perceptible curve of her lips.

But it was no jovial grin.

It wasn’t relief.

It wasn’t recognition.

It was a different thing.

A disappointment more like.

Or maybe—

Confirmation.

The waiter frowned.

He did not know why but it was an experience that he still remembered even after his shift was over.

Days passed.

The pattern held.

7:00.

Table 7.

Black coffee.

The door.

The glance.

The silence.

However, now the waiter was no longer able to see it.

That look.

That expectation.

This was the question that hung in the air that no one would answer each time the bell was rung.

It began to bother him.

Not in a loud way.

Not in such a manner he could readily explain.

But in that sort of manner that goes down to the chest and makes its nest.

Why did she always stare at the door so?

I felt like something needed to happen--why?

But never did?

And more importantly—

Why was it like one day.

It would?

On the tenth, he nearly inquired of her.

He came to the table as he always did and poured her a cup again, though she had not empty.

She glanced up at him.

Their eyes met.

And for a moment—

Something went by between them.

Not words.

Not exactly.

But something close.

He opened his mouth.

Then shut it up.

Because suddenly—

The question was wrong.

Too small.

Too simple that it obviously was not.

So he walked away.

And back to her silence went she.

—

On the fourteenth day the very cafe appeared to take notice.

Not consciously.

But in subtle ways.

Table 7 was not previously filled in prior to 7:00 anymore.

The chair was still at an angle a little in the direction of the door, as though it were recalling her position when she was not present.

Even the light over by the window had been less at that time, curving just enough to make her glow in silent light which was not quite touching anybody.

She joined the place.

Not a regular.

Not a stranger.

Something in between.

Something… fixed.

—

And still—

Every evening—

At exactly 7:00—

She walked in.

Sat down.

Waited.

Watched the door.

After some time the waiter ceased to count the days.

No longer did it matter.

The question that kept on reoccurring, becoming sharper as the time went on was what mattered.

Why would she always peep at the door?

walk in, as some-one was to walk in?

And why—

deep down—

was it like that with me.

had not come yet?