remy

I sit clutching my tea and counting the scarlet sedans that passed the window, secretly condemning each and every one of the drivers for their ostentation. The red is making my goddamn eyes hurt, and it’s not even 10 AM. What is with this city and red? Hell, even the logo of this café has got red all over it. Red, the color of blood, lipstick, and other cliché phenomena. Also the title of half a million romance novels and half a million more pop songs, maybe even some fifth grade poetry.

I sip my tea. It’s making my stomach churn just thinking about it.

It’s not that I’m bitter or anything, I tell myself. It’s not like I was fired again for some inane reason like “obfuscating my time card” when I was only a half-an-hour late, once. The injustice stings, but only because it’s so petty. Their reasons are far too obvious, and it annoys me doubly that they don’t even bother to give a legitimate excuse. I see a kid stumble on the sidewalk outside and start bawling, and I think to myself, I can tell this is going to be a long day.

“Well, look who’s here,” a voice says dryly next to me. I turn to find Greg spinning his car keys on his finger. “I thought you said you wouldn’t get into trouble this time.” He’s got this lazy smirk on his face that somehow also manages to be exasperated. I know he means well, but I want to punch him all the same.

“I didn’t,” I say defensively.

“Sure,” he says, “just like you didn’t throw a stapler at that last guy who got on your nerves.”

“He didn’t get on my nerves; he fucking insulted me,” I growl. I keep the insult to myself, though. There’s no need to let everyone in the coffee shop hear my pitiful woes.

“Keep it down, Rem.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“People are staring.”

I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, a cluster of elderly women on the other side of the room look scandalized at my profanity.

“Whoops,” I say.

Greg settles into the seat beside me and leans on the counter, taking my cup from my fidgety hands. He’s frowning now, and he raises an eyebrow when he sees me cross my arms.

“Don’t give me that look. You know you’ll never stay employed if you keep losing your temper.”

“I was perfectly in the right.”

“As much as I wish that would make things easier for you, it doesn’t.” He sets down the cup almost sternly. “So, without resorting to violence now, what exactly happened?”

I lean forward to inspect a mangy dog urinating on the side of a fire hydrant. It doesn’t have a collar, and by the looks of it, hasn’t ever had one. Its whiskers are clumped with filth from sniffing about the streets of the city, but it prances along happily all the same. Before long, another generous passerby offers it a tidbit, and it continues along the sidewalk with its tail wagging. I stare stubbornly ahead and start rolling my cup around in my hands again.

“Seriously.”

“Seriously what?”

“What happened?”

 “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I hedge this with a sidelong glare, insinuating that he is disturbing my peace.

“They found out?”

Not thirty minutes after I’d gotten to work that day. I couldn’t help noticing as I walked into the manager’s office that his face was the color of a ripe tomato, and he had a nervous tic between his eyes. He didn’t look at me the whole time, only smiled with thinly veiled contempt as he informed me I would no longer be working for them. But that’s not the part that sticks most in my mind, of course. It’s what he said afterwards that struck me to my very core. It’s the loathing I saw as I passed by his door for the last time – not even loathing for me, but for such a minute part of me that wasn’t like him.

“It’s nothing,” I say.

“Look – ”

“I don’t want any more of your patronizing sympathy,” I hiss, and I grab my tea and bag off of the chair. “You know where to find me. I’m not coming back to this place.”

“Give it a chance,” Greg says wearily, and it makes me feel guilty. “I’m trying, alright? Just be a bit more patient. They’re not used to people like you.”

“Who are people like me?” The venom is back.

“I didn’t mean – ”

“I think you did. And really? I appreciate your favors and everything, but don’t pretend you’re any different than the rest of them. I’m the same as any of you, Greg, and I wish you could get it in your head.”

I leave the café already regretting what I said. I know he means well, and a friend who would help me through so much bullshit is rare to find. But the rage boiling inside of me wanted a target, not the right target. And what will it help anyway? I can pull aside anyone in this godforsaken little town, and I could guarantee their reaction to me, if they only knew. I want to storm out of the state, maybe out of the country. I want to find some place where I can drown in the rivers of people parading down the streets, engrossed in their own dreams, jobs, lives. I feel like a clownfish masquerading as a salmon, trying to swim upstream.

I’m so lost in my reverie and fuming so blindly that I crash full on into something that sends me reeling. I stumble backwards and realize there are papers scattered all over the walk, and some notebooks are even laying facedown in the mud. A girl – presumably the one I collided with so unceremoniously – is picking them up and apologizing profusely.

“I’m so sorry, I really should have looked where I was going,” she babbles. “I was distracted, talking on my phone and all that, if I hadn’t been, this wouldn’t have happened – ”

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” I say, and scramble to retrieve her things out of the slush clogging the streets. “Your notebook is soaked. God, I’m so stupid.”

She glances at me as she’s still kneeling, and I can’t help noticing that she has the loveliest eyes I’ve ever seen. One is slightly grayer than the other, which makes it look almost violet, and they’re both flecked with a blue in the center that reminds me of nothing so much as the sky on a quiet early morning. She’s smiling at me now, one side slightly higher than the other, and she brushes back her sandy-colored hair in a nervous gesture.

“It’s alright,” she stammers. “I didn’t need those notes anyway.”

“You didn’t need – ” I flip to the cover of the notebook I’m holding. “Multivariable calculus?”

She blushes now; an odd reaction. “I can just read the textbook.” She gets to her feet and brushes off her skirt, still appraising me in that coy, fearful way. I realize I’m still holding her papers and give them to her foolishly.

“Thanks,” she says like she wants to say something else.

“You’re welcome,” I say, because my mind has gone blank.

She turns to go, but thinks better of it, and gazes sheepishly at me. “I haven’t seen you here before. It’s a small town and I know most people here, so...”

“I’m sort of a nomad,” I tell her. “I mean, I haven’t been here long. I move around a lot.”

“Cool.” Another quick look accompanied by a smile. “My name is Imogene, by the way.”

I grin as well. “Nice to meet you, Imogene. I’m Remy.”

“I guess you’ll be moving on soon?” she hedges. For some reason, I want to hope there’s disappointment behind her question. There’s an earnestness behind her demeanor that I haven’t encountered in a long time, and it makes me want to trust her. My rationale screams at me from the back of my mind; I know she’s more likely than not got nothing in common with me. I know that she probably wouldn’t be so open if she knew why exactly I’m a nomad. The inquisitive air hangs, then fades as I begin to agree that, yes, I’ll be leaving in the morning. But what comes out of my mouth is entirely unexpected.

“Actually,” I say, catching myself by surprise, “I might stay here awhile after all.”