Portico Press

Grilled cheese & Cigarettes

We had met while working at a coffee shop on campus.  Her bleached hair was cut short to her shoulders and I couldn’t make out her face because of the masks.  She smelled vaguely like cigarettes but it was dulled in comparison to the coffee grounds and grilled cheeses we served.  I often heard her complain of how she was exhausted from the weekend and that “all men sucked.”  I didn’t disagree with her, of all the people I have disliked in this world most of them have been men.  We got along well but I tried to keep my distance in the cramped quarters of the coffee bar.  I was nearing the end of a relationship at the time, the last coughs of a terminally ill patient not yet willing to let go.  My girlfriend visited the coffee shop one time to say hello and after she left my coworker asked how I knew her.  Instead of saying it was my girlfriend I said, “Oh that’s Jen.”  The conversation I had with my girlfriend made me assume that my coworker would have known the relationship was more than just platonic, but again our relationship was on its last legs so to speak, so what do I know.  I found out my coworker’s name was Taylor, she was introducing herself to the new hire.  They began exchanging information on their course loads while I was ringing up the quickly lengthening line up.  They were both in psychology.  A major that I have often joked about around bar tables.  “The only people who study psychology are people trying to figure themselves out,” I would often state this as a fact despite my hesitation to sweeping generalizations.  By the end of university I believe I would accrue enough experience to say that psychologists are probably insane and should be seen only when one finds themselves bordering that same abyss of insanity.  

Over a particularly slow shift Taylor approached me to ask my plans for the weekend.  I noted that I would likely be at the bar I religiously attended, a routine which brought me just enough comfort to claim that I was “doing alright.”  She stated she knew the bar well and that her friend worked there as a bartender.  I found this peculiar as I had not ever seen her at the bar and the server she mentioned was likely ten years her senior.  The conversation petered out as customers arrived and began to expect us to take their orders.  

Friday night arrived and I arranged with some of my girlfriend’s friends to go out, unfortunately Jen couldn’t attend.  While I am sure a reason was given, the aforementioned disinterest in continuing a relationship was likely all that was needed to avoid joining.  We made our way into the bar, a place with low ceilings, TVs perpetually playing hockey, bowls with more salt in it than popcorn, and a chair that I had wasted a majority of my university nights in.  The group grabbed a couple of pitchers, paying in cash which left our pockets inundated with quarters.  Sitting around making conversation about courses, hobbies, and tomorrow night’s plans, the night continued uneventfully.  As I sat with a pitcher to myself I looked over to see Taylor and two friends enter the bar, I waved.  This moment struck me with the deja vu one finds in realizing life has patterns.  The first date I had ever gone on with Jen was in this exact spot, during that evening an ex that I had never really resolved things with entered on a date as well.  We shared a look that clarified everything and went back to our current romantic interests pretending it didn’t happen.  Taylor saw me and smiled. She went over to the bar, grabbed two pitchers and asked if she and her friends could join us.  The group had a resounding yes and immediately began inquiring about the connection I had to our new guests.  Playfully saying “we work together selling grilled cheese,” Taylor made the table chuckle.  The one close friend I had at this table of my girlfriend’s friends looked at me with a questioning gaze.  He knew how Jen and I were not doing well, and he often encouraged me to work things out or move on.  Neither of which I was doing at that moment.  Love sometimes has a tendency to snowball without anything propelling it, just continuing on the same path as the foundation hollows out.  The night turned quickly to become an intoxicating array of pitchers and cigarettes.  Taylor’s friends and her went into the washroom to do cocaine and returned to use the table as the dance floor.  A move that would often receive reprimand by the bartender, but again Taylor apparently knew the person so no reprimand was received.  

The night’s debauchery eventually overwhelmed my girlfriend’s friends and they funnelled out before last call, leaving Taylor and I finishing one too many free drinks by ourselves.  Turns out she did know the person working the counter.  As he was leaving my close friend pulled me aside and asked if I had talked to Jen at all.  I curtly responded that she hadn’t texted me back from earlier.  He looked over at Taylor by the bar and told me to get home safe.