Silent Partner

“Order for Willow!”

That’s not my real name, but it’s my name today. I’ll try anything to spark inspiration lately, including paper cup aliases. The barista flashes me a smirk and raises a knowing eyebrow.

Cup of oolong in hand, I drift back to a mustard velvet couch and settle in. Furniture like this would be out of place at any other coffee shop. Too worn, too garish, but not here. Apotheca is not only a hodgepodge of vintage furniture, but of people too. A collective assortment that’s somehow harmonious. Perhaps it’s why I spend time here, to find harmony among the discord.

At the booth, a cheery-but-tired mother sits with two toddlers. Rosy, wind-chapped cheeks, matted hat hair, and cups of cocoa on the table allude to a morning spent outside. The younger child’s red ringlets are luscious, and I scribble their likeness in my little black Moleskine. I notice the mother’s mug is untouched; she is too busy tending to the wiles of children. I wonder if she’ll be able to drink it before it gets cold.

My gaze shifts to an old man, alone. Icy turquoise eyes, the remaining glimmer among his aged body. I’ve seen him before, maybe. Small black coffee, pressed slacks. Newsboy cap on the table. As basic as they come and certainly not the muse that will bring me out of this funk.

The sleigh bells on the door jingle. I sink into the sofa and catch a glimpse of someone I haven’t seen before. With a gait that makes me wonder why he’d be ordering a caffeinated drink, he approaches the counter without pause.

“Bottle of water, please.”

“Ha, called it,” I mutter to myself.

He sets up at a corner spot only big enough for one. With hardly a glance beyond his table, he yanks a laptop from his leather bag and begins typing.

I drink him in. A long, lean figure, reclined, but focused. Quality shoes, though they’ve seen some wear. A heathered sweater, a size too large. Sandy hair tousled over tortoiseshell frames. His fingers dance over the keys, but what is he writing? And more importantly: why do I want so badly to know?

I play my advances out in my notebook. He has not once diverted his eyes from his computer.

With an accentuated attempt at a cough, I draw attention to myself. The old man lifts his head in my direction, as does the younger one; the mother does not seem to notice. I fiddle with the filigree metal vent on the wall, in all its layers of paint over paint. With eyes locked onto his, I slide my little black notebook behind the grate.

Heaving myself out of the sunk-in sofa, I head to the door. The sleigh bells chime behind me and my feet shuffle into a fluffy inch of snow.

So I lied.

I have seen him before. We’ve been exchanging handwritten messages in my Moleskine notebook for weeks now, each time leaving the book in the cavity of the wall vent. Through our needlessly covert correspondence, I’ve learned he comes to the shop for the free internet, and that his name is Jack. He doesn’t seem to appreciate the eccentricities of Apotheca, as I do. He’s there for one purpose: bandwidth.

Week by week, month by month, we write about our lives: what they are, what we wish they could be. We uncover shared loves of banh mi, finicky houseplants, and the allure of Rome, though neither of us has actually been overseas. He says he likes my sketches. I jest that he could expand his beverage horizons. I sign each of my entries with a different name, just as I do when ordering tea.

Some days we’re there at the same time and pretend not to know each other – an easy accomplishment considering that we have never actually spoken. Other days it’s just me. On those days, I trace his writing with my fingertip; it’s the closest we may come to a connection.

It’s a Tuesday in spring and I immediately head to the filigree vent for the latest message from Jack. As I fan through the pages to arrive at where we left off, a slip of paper falls loose and glides to the floor. It’s a check. For twenty thousand dollars. Written out to… me?! My real name.

I don’t recognize the issuer, a “Mr. Roland Hughes”. My skeptical eyes peer around to see if anyone had been watching me, but I am the only customer in the shop. I feverishly flip to where our messages left off, hoping for an explanation from Jack. Instead, unfamiliar penmanship – perfectly precise cursive.

“Take the trip – go to Italy. Don’t whittle away your days away with ‘what ifs’. I spent my youth working, working, working. Building a stable life for my wife and me, but not ‘living’. Now I’m old and she’s gone. What I wouldn’t give to have those days back with her. While it’s too late for me, it’s not too late for you. Put your reservations aside. And for goodness’ sake, talk to one another! - Roland”

I knew exactly who had written it.

My flustered scramble has caught the attention of the barista.

“How… how did he know about the notebook?” I ask.

“You aren’t exactly the most discreet,” the barista noted, mocking my fake cough.

I’m too motivated to simply observe the world today. Turning to leave, I wonder how Roland was able to write the check to my real name. I open the notebook to slide the check inside, and I realize I had written it myself some time ago, right on the inside cover.

I nearly knock into the door as a customer is walking in. Jack.

“Hey... I’m Katie.”

With a shy smile and a bit of a laugh, Jack musters, “I know.”