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Life Over Breakfast

Wes Smith

    It began with French toast.
    I’d been staving off work all evening. Waking up, drudging through the labyrinth of the city, putting on a plastered smile... it was all a necessity, not a passion. Perhaps in another life I had pursued what mattered, but that was another life, and I could only live my own. So, I avoided it, fatiguing myself to ensure that each day I arrived my distaste would be palpable to those around me in silent protest of failed dreams.
    Despite the ever-growing hour and the impending Awakening, I had no desire for sleep. The night called, as it often did, pulling me under its sway until I could do little but surround myself with its presence. I rarely ignored that call, and that night, it demanded breakfast at Midnight.
    I arrived at the local diner, radio tuned to classic disco for reasons beyond the universe’s comprehension. The world demanded Barry White, and I heeded it as a soul born of nostalgia from a time I never knew.
    It was the middle of the week, and I was among the only patrons, seated by a gentle soul the likes of which are only found working the overnight shift at all-hours cafes. A woman chatted from her booth to one of the servers, an obvious friend. Behind me, a hipster couple in matching square-framed glasses tried to embrace through folds of leather. We were the only diners.
    I had craved French toast, and it was exactly as promised. Somewhere before I arrived, I promised myself to avoid the temptation of electronics, allowing myself to sit and think as I used to in college when such excursions were a regular occurrence. So I sat, alone, over coffee that did little to fend off the creeping ichor of black thoughts. But, it was good coffee, and the air was clean and filled with, somehow, more disco.
    I left 30% for the waiter.
    As I nudged the exit, the Night Magic happened. A woman, a lost soul of her own, awaited, nearly bumping into the glass panel in her inattention. We laughed and moved to switch places, only to glance back at each other in our passing.
    “You know, I probably can’t drink a whole thing of coffee on my own,” she said in an awkward tremble. I knew the feeling. I accepted. The waiter gave me a subtle wink as he sat us in a quiet corner near the windows.
    “I didn’t think there were others like me,” I noted, doing my best to act suave though my heart beat hard enough to make my fingers tremble. I dared not pick up my cup at first, lest she notice.
    “Sometimes, you just need coffee and a Nutella crepe,” she answered.
    We stared out the window, lost in the wonder of the city outside. Sometimes, we stared at each other. She was a sketch of contrasts, with skin that glowed under florescent light and trimmed black hair that absorbed it. Thick, serious eyebrows belied cunning humor and sharp wit. Whatever I had been pondering before her arrival had given way to companionship.
    “You know, sometimes I think people misunderstand the city,” she said. “Everyone calls it noisy and stressful, like it’s torture to live here amid the chaos. ‘Why would you do that to yourself?’ people ask, and they come up with some lame excuse about jobs or culture or whatever.
    “But they haven’t seen my city. The city of lights falling on quiet streets, buildings shining as sentinels to our sanity. House parties at 1a.m. where everyone talks in whispers while some dude jams on an acoustic guitar and someone managed to bring in a portable hookah. We can go to the beach, to the urban jungle, and to the desert in one night if wanted.”
    “Or to get coffee and crepes at Midnight,” I interjected.
    The girl nodded with stars in her eyes. “Yeah. Or get coffee at Midnight.”
    We let the moment sink in. I thought for a moment before asking, “What brought you to the city?” It seemed a lame question - a common question - in hindsight, and I regret asking it.
    She did not seem to mind. No, in fact she seemed to choose her answer carefully, as though the future hinged on her words.
    “It doesn’t matter what brought me here, I guess. No one ever ends up doing what they say brought them here. It’s what keeps us here that’s important. What keeps you here?”
    “Stubbornness, mostly,” I laughed. “In reality, I don’t rightfully know. Some love I can’t explain, the pull and allure of being both alone and surrounded by all the people of the Earth.”
    “I know what you mean,” she nodded. And we were silent, sipping on our caffeine. The hipster couple left and, unlike my first visit, I did not envy them this time. KC and the Sunshine Band told us how they liked it.
    “It’s not always easy, though,” I admitted. “Sometimes I’m not sure if I love the city or the concept of a city. Maybe the idea of skyscrapers and people is more exciting than actually living in it. We have all these ideas of what things are like before we move here, and it’s jarring to see the truth. The rent, the driving, the grind. It feels like sometimes we’ll never make it, and that every day is just another struggle.”
    She smirked at me and raised an eyebrow in a knowing glance. “Are you alive?”
    “Yeah. Last I checked.”
    “Then you’ve made it.”
    I laughed at the simplicity of those words, but I could not argue.
    “I suppose you’re right,” I conceded. “If nothing else, I have stories no one else can tell. That counts for something.”
    “Cities are a lot like people. They have personalities and souls,” she said. “They can be fickle and condescending. But, they can also thrive and live when given the right push. They’re the collective conscious of the people who live in them and the creativity those people breathe. I don’t think people choose where they live; I think they’re drawn to the cities that have chosen them. Otherwise, you’d be somewhere else.”
    It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “Does that mean I can tell your personality, too?”
    She sat back and stared out the window at the few passing cars filled with other restless minds. “I am this city, and this city is me. Our love is shared, and what will be, will be.”
    I knew the love she spoke of, though I could not form the same words to say it. The passion, the hidden mysticism that kept me in place for so many years. I believe there are many such places on our planet, areas where people gather for reasons unknown, places of power and force beyond the scope of our understanding. So, we settle, and we build, and we love.
    When it was time to go, we held hands to the parking lot, where we kissed and held each other until we were almost one. When we parted, she laughed and turned and began walking down the street, with no car or aim in mind.
    “Will I see you again?” I called to her, unwilling to let the night end.
    She smiled and looked at the twinkling lights of the offices above. “I’m always around,” she called back.
    And the city called me into the night once again.

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