Thursday Morning MAG

January 12, 2011
By sejalj BRONZE, San Ramon, California
sejalj BRONZE, San Ramon, California
4 articles 0 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
"If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating."

-Sylvia Plath


I. Angie

It's gray as I park behind the Cafe Thames and unlock the back door. I shiver and turn all the lights on, one by one. Sometimes I wish someone out there would get some hope form their sight biting through the darkness.

I hang my parka on the coat rack and slip on my black work apron. “ANGIE,” it says in plain white caps, as if the tiny word is enough to describe who I am.

The day finally starts when I set the brew in the coffee machine. The gray has peeled away, leaving an almost white color, and then the white slowly blushes into rose, and then the sun rises so fast I can't catch my breath, and then it's day. Just like that. I close my eyes, and as if the sun beamed itself right into my soul, I'm smiling for the first time that day.

A half hour later early-bird customers are trickling in and out, ready for work. “G'morning, sir. How can I help you? I can do extra hot, yes. And would you like one of our baked goods to go with that? All right. What name should I call? Mm-hm. That'll be $4.07. Thanks very much, sir. Have a great day.” Hours fly by and it's already 8 a.m., but I ignore my growling stomach and pleading throat to please my customers.

An old lady with streaked gray hair in a bun and pearls on her neck comes to the register. “Good morning! Earl Grey – black, please.” Her eyes are so blue, it's like a piece of the sky is hidden inside her brain.

“There you are,” I say, handing her a for-here cup with her change. She smiles, a big crease in her thin face.

“Thank you, Angie.”

And she takes her teacup and sits at the table by the bay window that overlooks the river. Angie. Angie. It's sweet as music, coming from her mouth. Angie.

Most of the rush hour customers are gone now, so I go to the back and wash the dishes, keeping an eye on the door. After my shift, I have to go to the library, have to work on my essay for class. And go to the grocery store. I've been out of bread for a week. And maybe talk to the manager about working more hours. College won't pay for itself.

A middle-aged man walks in and raises a hand in my direction, not bothering to come to the counter.

“Cappuccino, two raw sugars.”

He looks like he has been frowning his whole life. He sits across from the old lady who came in half an hour ago. Her teacup is empty.

“Hello, Mother,” he says.

“Brian! I've missed you. How are you?”

“Mother, we just saw each other two weeks ago. I'm doing fine. How're you?”

“I'm, uh, doing great, honey.” She smiles that reassuring smile only mothers have. “Just great.”

I bring him his cappuccino, and he glances at me, nodding. Suddenly I feel embarrassed for having eavesdropped, and I slip back behind the register and rest on the floor, my back slumped against the cabinet. I sit there while they continue their brief conversation. I'm still sitting there when they part ways seven minutes later.

“Well, Mother, it was great seeing you. I've got to head out now.”

“Of course. I wouldn't want you to be late. See you next Thursday.”

“Yes.”

“And you know you can always drop by when you're free, or call.”

A sigh. “I'll try, Mother, but you know how it gets …”

“Yes, yes, of course. I understand.”

The door closes softly. And I sit there until the end of my shift.



II. Elena

You know those things where, no matter what risk you need to take, you have to get them done? The things that keep you alive, barely keep the last threads that hold you up from snapping? Yeah, coffee every morning is like that for me.

So I'm opening the door to my ­favorite café, and sure, it's a little ­detour on my way to work, but this week has been rough as hell, working 11 hours a day and the kids going back to school, so I need it. The scent is flooding my nostrils as if I'm in nirvana, I swear.

I order my regular cappuccino and sit at a table near a small window that I can have all to myself. There's a fresh daisy in the vase, as always, and it makes me smile. At least there are some things left that still give me hope.

It's 9 already, and I have an hour commute, but who cares – I can call a babysitter and be home by 10. The morning rush has gradually left the café, and now it's almost empty.

“We saw each other two weeks ago. I'm doing fine. How are you?” I overhear coming from a table across the room, where a guy who looks even more stressed than me is sitting across from a sweet-looking older woman. I can't help but overhear; the guy's talking really loudly.

“I'm uh, doing great, honey. Just great,” replies the woman, with a hint of resignation, as if she is tired from carrying something over her head for a very long time. “How are the kids, and Donna?”

“The same. We're all doing fine.”

“Let them know I miss them!”

“Yes, Mother, we call when we can, you know.”

“Of course, darling. I just want to see their beautiful faces again.”

I glance over, and the woman's eyes are shining so bright, and something comes over me that I can't explain and my heart just erupts. I have no other way to describe it. It erupts like a volcano, the lava that had been compressed below the surface spewing out in my face, on the chairs, and on the daisy, its perfect white now blemished.

Just one question goes through my head, as if it's on autoplay and I can't find the pause button. How many times have I thought about either of my kids this week?

I let go of my lava-stained cup and walk slowly toward the door. I don't want to open it since once I do I know the wind will blow reality into my face and it will hit me just how much of a failure I am.

The older woman and the man stand up too. “Good-bye, Mother,” he says as he brushes past me and out the door. The woman falters, staring at her son through the door.

Then she turns and gives me the best meek smile I have ever seen. And before I can stop myself, I lean down and hug her. It is awkward – my long spine and her small, frail body – but I can feel the mother in her and I know she can feel the mother in me, like tiny, separate heartbeats that were born alongside our children.



III. Bridget

I'm on my late morning walk when I pass a cute-looking café and suddenly my stomach declares it wants a cookie. So I go in and wait for the three people in front of me before I order a snickerdoodle – warmed up, please. The server hands me the cookie in a paper bag with my change.

I turn to go back out into the morning chill when my eyes catch an older woman looking out the window sadly, hands in her lap. She looks kind of like my mom.

Wind grazes my jaw as the door opens and my thoughts refocus. I take a huge bite of the cookie and my stomach warms in agreement as I leave the café.



IV. Olivia

The day my husband died, he was lying in our bed, and he asked me to pull back the curtains so he could feel the sun on his eyelashes. I sat beside him and held his hand, our wrinkles meeting in the middle.

“Such a beautiful day,” he said softly. “The kind of day to sit on the beach and paint the waves.”

I smiled, in spite of the hurt. I could hear the strain in his voice, but unlike before, I couldn't ignore it, couldn't brush it off. The strain had consumed him now. Yet there he was, his hand in mine, as happy as he had ever been.

“I wish I could take you down to the beach today,” I replied.

“There's no need,” he said, shaking his head. “This is all I need.”

I wanted so badly to burst into tears, but I knew I couldn't fall apart when he needed me to lean on.

“Just promise me something,” he said. “Spend time with Brian. And when he and Donna have children, let them know that they once had a grandpa who would have very much liked to know them.”

We both knew he was going to die that day. But I didn't shed a tear, not on that day, not at the funeral, and not in the five months since, each day wasting away with a rip of my day-by-day calendar.

The only reason I am sitting here now, on my front porch on this bitterly cold Thursday morning sobbing is because I am trying so hard to fulfill his last wish. I feel it upon me, and I know for certain that I have given up.



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This article has 14 comments.


Puyruf said...
on Mar. 11 2012 at 6:23 pm
Puyruf, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
0 articles 0 photos 7 comments
This is absolutely beautiful. Please keep writing, you have an amazing amount of talent!

neel said...
on Jan. 22 2012 at 12:03 pm
Great effort, has message, it touchs heart.I look forward to read many more stories from you. Way to go gal.

meghdafor said...
on Jan. 21 2012 at 10:57 pm
The format of the story "Thursday Morning" appeared unfamiliar to me at first sight. My apprehensions disappeared as soon as I read the story. The author has narrated the whole story through four characters. Sejalj has done a great job in interlinking the four characters and conveying the theme of the story through them very so beautifully. The interest of the reader is maintained throughout and I must compliment the author for doing such a wonderful job in writing such an interesting story.

sejalj BRONZE said...
on Jan. 15 2012 at 4:20 pm
sejalj BRONZE, San Ramon, California
4 articles 0 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
"If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating."

-Sylvia Plath

Thanks everyone for all your kind comments and ratings! :)

alpha said...
on Jan. 15 2012 at 4:38 am
Each character was well felt and expressed. amazing to feel the maturity hidden in you and for you to feel the pulse of youngesters and the grieving mother was fantasticl.. keep writing love it.

tini said...
on Jan. 15 2012 at 4:16 am
Hi, Like the layoutand could feel the cold in Old Ladies blue eyes. Nice to know young persosn can feel old persons constrains.

rimzim said...
on Jan. 15 2012 at 2:26 am
I really enjoyed how you used the eyes and ears of three strangers to tell us Olivia's story. Quite clever and effective! The overlap of overheard conversation was a nice touch too.

Ishan J. said...
on Jan. 14 2012 at 11:07 pm
Awesome story! I love how it's the same story but in different perspectives!

Sarah_H said...
on Jan. 9 2012 at 8:09 pm
Sarah_H, Alexandria, Virginia
0 articles 0 photos 5 comments

Favorite Quote:
"It is perfectly okay to write garbage--as long as you edit brilliantly."
C J Cherryh

This was wonderful! Very dynamic and well thought out. Not to mention it spoke volumes. Great job!

on Jan. 6 2012 at 10:34 pm
PhoenixCrossing GOLD, Tinley Park, Illinois
14 articles 0 photos 179 comments
Wow. This is really great. I wasn't a big fan of the characters changing so much but that's a personal thing; it worked perfectly for your piece. I really enjoyed the ending, what a twist! The beginning was strong yet weak in my opinion. It had really strong imagery but the amount of it made it weak. The excessiveness made it lose a lot of its importance-like inflation ya know? Other than that this was amazing! Keep writing! If you can can you check out a thread I posted on the fiction forum a few days ago? It's under something like "first short story ever". I'd like some honest comments! Thanks so much!

on Dec. 23 2011 at 4:44 pm
songofsongs BRONZE, Melbourne, Florida
3 articles 0 photos 9 comments

Favorite Quote:
Dance is the hidden language of the soul. ~Martha Graham

wow...so stunning. love how you kept the suspense at the end! please write a sequel or something...i need to know what happens to the characters!

on Dec. 22 2011 at 3:22 pm
otherpoet SILVER, Wayland, Massachusetts
6 articles 9 photos 254 comments

Favorite Quote:
"For beautiful eyes, look for the good in others; for beautiful lips, speak only words of kindness; and for poise, walk with the knowledge that you are never alone." - Audrey Hepburn

Wow! This is fabulous. I could really empathize with each of the characters. Olivia's section was particularly beautiful. Thanks for writing!

on Dec. 22 2011 at 12:12 pm
RedheadAtHeart ELITE, Mountain Home, Idaho
109 articles 0 photos 165 comments

Favorite Quote:
Love with open hands. - Madeleine L'Engle

Oh, this is so beautiful. Will you check out my poem of the same name, please? I'd love to hear what you have to say.

on Dec. 21 2011 at 12:39 pm
batondancetumble SILVER, Boone, Iowa
6 articles 0 photos 9 comments

Favorite Quote:
A creative man is motivated by the desire to achieve, not by the desire to beat others.
~Ayn Rand
Act as if what you do makes a difference. It does.
~William James
“Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery. And today? Today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present.” – B. Olatunji

This is written beautifully!!! The story really flows even though there are multiple characters telling the same story. Keep writing!


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