Café Life

Even though Charis didn’t own a television, she still saw her share of shows. ‘Saw’ is the operative word because the TV set in question glowed silently in the store window across the street from the café. Her father always said TV rotted your brains, but she felt immune to its detrimental effects as long as it was punctuated by the bustling street life of Grand Avenue. She could watch as long as real life played between them: other people driving by, smoking cigarettes, walking their animals, getting in cars, holding hands. Sometimes she imagined the characters in the shows were the ones milling around under its blue-grey light, like they were queued up for their turn on the screen. But she knew they were just ordinary people. Livin life. Being alive. This was Tuesday, and good old Eduardo—the only man she trusted to make her coffee right, set cup and saucer on the edge of the table and smiled down at her. She broke her gaze to let out a sheepish thanks, but he already knew, and went back to the countertops. That night the café was the last to close. Eduardo had the chairs up, and Charis gathered her things. The street had long since emptied, but as she walked home, the television still played on behind her. She would sleep well, she thought.