The waitress gives me a look from the back of her dusty blue counter. If one is able to say “I told you so,” with her eyes, I swear she's an expert on it. She knows that something is wrong when I want the check with an unfinished cherry pie in front of me, because she is the same waitress that served us last night, and the night before that and the night before that.
She takes her ponytail braid to the front and fixes the very end of it while passing through the counters. She is one of those girls who like their hair braided. She reminds me of my childhood, how my mother used to braid my hair because she thought braids made me look more Tess like. Nowadays all she can do is to accuse me of being too young and too helpless.
The waitress comes to us, holding the check in her left hand. She hesitates but turns to me first, than to him; searching for a sign of responsibility in our eyes, a direction. I'm terrified to make a move. Terrified to speak or to take a breath. If it was possible, I could sit there forever staring at his green eyes waiting for a response; until a wise mind reminds me of that I cannot spend the rest of my life in a coffee shop, sitting at a wooden table, waiting.
He closes his eyes in a way that they do in the movies only. Imagine an eye and the eye closes softly, slow-motion; but you have to admit that it is so fucking slow that you want to rip the eyelid away. I wonder if he does it deliberately, to make me feel the very light essence of the ticks and the tocks.
He takes his wallet out while he switches his legs, making a move to stand up. At the same time amazing me with his speed. 5$ for his cappuccino but with less milk, 6$ for my small hot chocolate plus 40 cents for extra cream, 10$ for double sized cherry pie, no charge for a cup of water. Total of 21.40$, without the tip. He doesn't feel well, I bet he is going to forget the tip. Moreover the look on the waitress' face flashes everything.
The moment he takes a step, he pauses and turns to me. I can feel the last moments of my waiting. He bents down next to me, getting support from the wooden table. Nervous as hell, he puts a little kiss on my cheek.
“Goodbye, baby.” he says it so easily, just like the song.
I almost hear him sing “I'm gonna leave you now,” while he is heading towards the front door.
There is no reminder anymore, no lover, no braider. Even the pie maker has left the shop. But the clock is there, ticking only; 'cause it seems he stole the tocks before drifting away.
