Three…

Two..

One.

The sound of the door chimes rang through this small, quaint cafe as she makes her way inside. She had on an vibrant green coat to keep her warm, a dark contrast to her red hair. On her feet: the dirtiest white sneakers you could ever see. To any other, her whole ensemble would look ridiculous. But not her. She has this certain way about her. A je ne sais quoi, if you will.

She glanced briefly at the bar and gave us all a quick nod and a small smile. She’s been frequenting this cafe for so long that all of us are familiar to her and her to us all. She proceeded to her usual nook. Up until now, it’s still a wonder how her special corner is always empty whenever she comes in. It’s as if this particular spot is reserved only to her. I wonder what would happen if someone else is occupying the powder blue couch on a Sunday afternoon…

She plopped her black, mini backpack on the couch and took of her coat before taking a seat. She is in a canary sundress, too short and thin for the rainy days. But the cold doesn’t seem to bother her. It will be another 5 – 10 minutes of silence before she calls our attention to place her order. During this time, she would look around the cafe, as if it’s her first time there. Her eyes would take on the sights — a funny picture of a pug about to catch a treat thrown mid-air, a framed cross-stitched words of affirmation fit for an AirBNB, a small counter of assorted knick knacks that the cafe owner has collected during his many travels around the world, and an old record player set upon a rickety vintage cabinet. Ella Fitzgerald’s “Dream A Little Dream of Me” is currently playing. I saw her gently mouth the lyrics as she continuously stare at the rhythmic spin of the record.

I approached her to take her order, although by now I already know it by heart: a turkey sandwich — warmed and cut into half — and a large cold brew. But today is a different Sunday from all previous Sundays. She just ordered the sandwich. Plus a glass of warm water (“if you can serve it in advance, please”). Should I cut it in half, I asked, waiting for her to acknowledge my attention to details. She half-nodded half-mumbled a reply — me and my attention to details at the very back of her mind.

While I gave her order to the kitchen staff, I glanced back at her and as expected, saw her getting into her ritual. This ritual which eventually became part of my ritual, as well.

It goes like this: she would open her backpack and get a set of letters. Letters that are handwritten, letters that will make her feel everything and will take her everywhere and every time.

The first one was written in neon ink. I’m not one to pry but from where she usually sits, the afternoon light through the glass window would always hit the paper making it hard to ignore. The writer must have written it right off the bat for I can see the now familiar erasures in between sentences and paragraphs. He or she or they, I don’t know. What I know is this: it is the kind of letter you write when so many thoughts are brewing in your mind that you just have to put it into writing. Thus, the erasures. Thus, the coarse writing. She reads through this letter in haste, always, as if in the same cadence as the hand that wrote it. She always has this frown when she reads through it. But it was not an angry frown. It was more of a frown you make when you don’t really understand what’s going on but would really like to. With a little wrinkle on her forehead and a short, heavy sigh, she folded the letter delicately and set it aside.

She unfolder the second letter, which is the shortest of them all. It was written in a small piece of paper, torn from a notebook, written in haste. As if the writer was much in a hurry to give it to her. As if the writer took what remaining five minutes of the day to draft this letter, if you can call it that. This one… this one never fails to make her laugh. I’m amused seeing her laugh — no sound, shoulder heaving, all crinkly eyes as she slowly cover her already closed mouth with her hands.

Ding!

The sound of the kitchen bell interrupted me. I made my way to her to give her her order. She secretly wiped off a tear from the corner of her eyes before folding the letter and putting it aside with the rest. She looked up at me to say thanks, always the polite one.

I looked back at her as she went onto the third letter. This one is my favorite because it makes her smile her little smile, makes her sigh her little sigh. Unlike the first one, this letter appears to be carefully thought out as it was written fluidly on paper. I’m just speculating until now but the blush on her cheeks and the red flush on her neck are clear indicators. It was the kind of letter that someone, on the height of emotions, would write to a favorite lover. It was two pages of back to back writing but it seems that the writer couldn’t get enough words to fit the pages and articulate the feeling. With a slight smile on the corner of her mouth and a long, heavy sigh, she folded the letter just as the first and set it aside.

And then I saw her reaching out for the fourth letter. Ah… the last one. The one that will make her poignant. The one that will make her look out of the window and be all pensive. It was a one-pager one-sided letter with lightly written words, as if the hands that wrote it was being as delicate as the message it was evoking. The way she would let her eyes go through each word on paper is equally as delicate. Too delicate that it’s as if she’s afraid her eyes would burn through the paper and all those words lovingly written will turn into ashes.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiip!

The sound of paper getting torn in half startled me.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiip! She continued tearing it apart into smaller and smaller pieces.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip! She went onto the next letter.

And the next.

And the next.

Tearing all of them in a monotonous cadence. Mechanical. Void of all emotions… All emotions I’ve seen jist a few minutes ago. All emotions I’ve seen in the past twenty-two months she’s been here — every Sunday, on that powder blue couch– are gone.

She took her glass of water, never taking her eyes off the pile of ripped letters while she drank and emptied it. As she put her glass back on the table, she slowly glanced at me, as if feeling my gaze and suddenly being aware of my presence. Before I can even look away and pretend that I wasn’t staring, she gave me a nod. Ever so slightly. Before I can nod back, or give even the tiniest bit of acknowledgment, she quickly pulled off her gaze and got up. She gathered her things, put on her coat, and left some bills on the table. She started making her way out of the cafe in her brisk, evenly-cadenced walk. Looking ahead, she passed by me without even a glance, leaving me feeling like one of them knick-knacks in the cafe.

That would be the last I would see her. But of course I didn’t know it at that time.

I made my way to her table, her couch, her special place in this cafe. I looked at the evidences of her presence — the empty glass with a faint stain of her lips; the pile of ripped letters that now looked no more than rubbish pieces, it’s value compounded by time diminished in this very instant; her plate of turkey sandwich — untouched, uneaten, cold…