Susan
This was what, the twentieth time she’d encountered him here, the French Café, her favorite Berkeley neighborhood coffee shop? Always alone, a little sad looking in spite of the wide smile he gave people who looked his way, but there was something odd about this man. Was it those sudden twitches his body made just as she looked away from him? Maybe her overactive imagination was playing tricks. Susan looked around her. She recognized the regulars, some alone and others in groups, people who came to this café on specific days at specific times. He was one of the regulars, as regular as Susan was about her coffee order: decaf, nonfat, bone-dry cappuccino; small. She didn’t know what he ordered, although it was sure to be coffee. He seemed earthy, not like one of those delicate tea devotees. Shortish in stature, broad face, not particularly handsome, unruly hair in a light brown color going to white. His glasses were thick and black rimmed. Susan was not attracted to him; simply curious but not curious enough to engage in conversation.
But he stands out somehow. She sipped her cappuccino trying hard not to distort the whiskered face drawn on the dense milk foam. The problem was that she liked her cappuccinos topped with cocoa powder. But how could she sprinkle the cocoa without erasing the barista’s masterpiece, which could be a cat, a happy face, a swirl, a heart? She had a special fondness for the cat drawings. They evoked coziness and Norman Rockwell-type nostalgia; feelings foreign to her own upbringing. Look at it, she said to herself, take a picture, then pour on the cocoa. Picture taken, cappuccino in hand, Susan went straight to the condiments bar and covered the foam with cocoa powder. On her way back, she glanced at him briefly as she passed his table. Susan knew he recognized her as she did him. They exchanged a slight nod in acknowledgment, and no more. Susan found a certain comfort in the company of familiar strangers, comfort knowing there was no pressure to engage in social interaction when she wanted to have time alone to read, write, or sit by herself to think, sort things through. Like him, maybe? Two birds of a feather… No, she stopped that thought. This man’s presence felt weird, but she couldn’t say why. She just felt it.
