More than a week had passed
since my laptop was stolen from the new café.
New to me I should say, I’d only been there on one other occasion trying
to find my footing when I gave the thief a crime of opportunity or was it
considered an opportune crime. I wasn’t
sure. Maybe that’s why my writing was
terrible. My only regret was all the
failed stories of magic they might come across if curiosity struck which I
doubted.
As I sat in the police station
feeling stupid to be reporting said incident it occurred to me that said
officer taking the report might be thankful for the paperwork disruption. According to him crimes like this happened
and if I really wanted it back I could hang out around sites like Craigslist
until it eventually would post as a ‘used’ or ‘refurbished’ laptop.
“It could be worse,” the officer
offered. “There could be naked photos
you floating around by now.”
My eyes quipped. “Why would that be?”
He shrugged, “People with
vendettas photo shop nasty images all the time.
Women especially.” He didn’t
continue. And I wasn’t sure if he meant
women were victims most of the time or the perpetrators. I also wasn’t sure if this cop was
intentionally looking for a write up of the suspension kind or if he was just
had no filter for these sort of things.
After a day I’d give up with
checking the various sites it might appear on.
By the second day I’d lost any hope of ever seeing the laptop again and
on the third day I drank to the stories I’d lost due to forgetting to back them
up. All signs pointed to giving up this
writing thing. It had shown not to work
out and frankly I wasn’t sure if I was improving.
But then I was contacted by
thief.
The thief wasn’t what expected
but nor had the weather. For days I
dreaded the encounter. Questioned my
sanity, wondered if it was too late to get the police involved, would he show
if I did… He’d never made any straight out demands which I’d found odd but when
I saw the email –
I have your laptop.
I’d like to return it. Meet me at
the café.
I’m not sorry.
That last line always did it. It
was what made the part of me that wanted to be angry rage against a padded
room, arms appropriately buckled down because I wanted to just lose it. Why I had this in mind was probably a testament
to my own mental standing but I figured it was better than wanting to harm
him. And in some scenarios I did. I’d pictured how it’d all go down how the
wind would whip just as I stepped.
Immediately I’d feel him watching.
He’d sit elegantly, my laptop in a bag near his casually propped legs as
he took tentative sips from his mug.
Because I knew my thief would not fit some cookie cutter
stereotype.
In some ways I’d been right and in others ways I hadn’t. But when I arrived before he did and on a
beautiful sunny day no less, no wind to whip my recently blown out afro into
it’s natural element and no overcast skies I had to rework my
expectations. I had to give chance to
the possibility I would, without a doubt, be absolutely wrong about this entire
encounter. I might even find I was being
pranked which had been a scenario but very low on the totem pole due to the
amount of timing, lack of friends, and the fact I’d given more weight to the
idea there was never a laptop at all.
So I waited for him to show. I
stood at the front of the café for naught.
No one waved me down. In fact
there weren’t many people inside for a Monday morning, granted it was a town
holiday so the hustle and bustle might happen later in the day once everyone
was done sleeping in from weekend hangovers.
I walked to the counter that was stationed with your typical run of the
mill acne ridden teenage kid that had more of a D&D air about him rather
than holiday on the beach. It was a non
event. In a non event type of
place. On a non event type of day. And this would be a non event type of event
because my thief had a pension for jokes.
I pictured them reading one of my stories which undoubtedly had my
contact information on the cover page and instead of just wiping my hard drive
he preferred a bit of a fun. So maybe he
was here. I looked at the family seated
by the window, near the two seated table I’d imagine him at and thought that father
definitely looks suspect as he battles his kid for the sippee cup. Definitely a career criminal with his khaki
shorts, hairy legs, and “World’s Second Worst Dad” chocolate stained
shirt. At least I hoped it was chocolate
as I took a seat that allowed me to watch him.
“Care if I join you,” a voice said.
I turn my head away and find a tall woman with dark wet wavy hair that
comes to her shoulders. She’s dressed
simple – black cami and dark blue jeans with a newspaper tucked underneath her
arms – and looking only at me. I stare
at her and I know she’s staring down at least early 40’s, maybe late 30’s but
my eyes wander across her once more, the canvas of her and she doesn’t shuffle
nervously but takes the seat aggressively.
“You took too long.”
I think I want to say sorry. I
think I probably should say sorry for my blatant ogling and I think I might
even be but my mouth only hangs open before finally offering, “okay.” The woman shuffles things about reaching
beneath the table and leaving with her wallet in hand. She goes to order a drink with her newspaper
still tucked beneath her arms. I watch
as she places her orders, stand off to the side and massages her shoulder
before unfolding the paper to read a tiny bit.
She sips hesitantly as she makes her way back over to me, her eyes glued
to the article. Her body collapses so
effortlessly it’s as if she’d never been erect.
The bell rang signaling a customer entry and it brought me back. More so the gentleman that walked in brought
me back. I watched him, felt drawn to
him and the black bag slung over his shoulder.
He met my eyes once and a smile formed before he turned away. I heard the woman across from me snicker and
noticed her eyes were no longer buried in the article but wholly on me.
“You’re not very good at poker are you?” she asks leaning in and I notice
how warm her chocolate eyes are against her olive skin. How inviting yet so sinister they are, her
lips are quirked as if she’s heard my thoughts and she mouths a words so slowly
I’m not sure I’m seeing things.
“I’ve never played,” I answer honestly.
“I believe you,” she says drawing back and taking another sip of her coffee. Fighting my eyes, fighting the desire to
stare at her with that cup pressed against her lower lip I look back to the
front for the guy. But he is no longer
there. I start to look around when she
leans in again and the action alone demands my full attention.
“What did you come here for?” she ask me and the question catches me off
guard, “what do you want? Anything up
there you like specifically? I’ll get
it. My way of apologizing for being rude
earlier,” she smiles.
“I’m fine.”
“That’s a lie.” Her eyes are wild. “What do you want?” The air stills. Steam billows from the front, utensils
clatter, an order is yelled, and my shoulder is tapped. She smiles.
I turn and it’s him. Smiling down
at me.
“Sorry to bother you,” he says never looking away from me. He adjusts his black rimmed glasses and
ignores the woman sitting opposite me. I
feel her eyes on me all the while. “The
guy at the front said you forgot this,” he had a pastry in a bag.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t order
anything.”
“It’s mine,” the woman says reaching between us to grab it from his
hand. “Thanks sweetie. Run along now.”
He smiles at us both, nods, and then walks away. What just happened? What’s happening? “This is for you,” she says handing the same
pasty bag over to me. “Take it before I
change my mind about you.”
I shift in my seat and make my way to stand. She laughs.
I pack up my things in a hurry as her laughter bellows. A few people turn in our direction but no one
steps over. World’s Second Worst Dad
offers a tepid smile as he wrangles a knife from the child that’s more
mobile.
I swing my bag over my shoulder, abandon my drink, and exit the café
vowing to never return to it. I get to
my car and throw my things into the passenger seat. The warmth of the sun beating down on me,
reminding me the day is too beautiful to be filled with such darkness. It doesn’t match me. It doesn’t match my twisted insides. It doesn’t feel natural.
And the woman just sits there, in all her beauty watching me. Her smile still riding her lips. I don’t see the guy anymore, the one who fit
my bill, the one who might’ve had decided to return my laptop if not for
her. She is looking at me more intently,
curving her finger beckoning me to come back.
I get in my car and slam the door.
Squealing out of the lot I hit the road at a menacing speed and it feels
good.
I’m racing down. I want to stop
feeling. I want to just tap out. I want the magic of my stories to be real. I reach over into the seat to find the
cigarettes I vowed to give up only to hear the rattling of a pastry bag but
aside from that is the solidness I hadn’t expected. I swerve to the side of the road, throw the
car into park and pull out what I suspect I already know.
I know.
I know.
Pulling out my laptop I spot the yellow stickie with an elegant script
with three simple words scribbled onto it-
Thanks for breakfast.
I toss the note and see there’s something on the other side. And that’s when I notice my wallet is
gone. I look over to the note, it’s staring
at me and I know.
I know.
I’m not sorry.
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