Simon

Martin sat with his face tilted down toward the mug clutched in his hands. He felt the coffee steam wash over his face as he took a long drink. On this cold morning he was grateful for the little bit of warmth that spread through him with that first sip. He sat in his usual booth at the back of the cafe, in his usual seat, facing the door so he could listen to the sounds of business; the chiming of the little bell over the door as people came and went, the susurrus of the steady stream of customers ordering; the gurgle, hiss, and din of coffee making that all blended together into a pleasant white noise that silenced the troubled thoughts that clung to him like lint. 

“You’re a million miles away, Marty.” The gruff voice from the other side of the table was amused. 

Martin’s head shot up and he turned his face in the direction of the other man, Simon. Martin had once touched his face, joking that he could see the other man that way. That hadn’t been true, of course, but afterwards he did have the recollection of rough stubble and a broad, beakish nose to associate with the vague gathering of shadow shapes he had otherwise associated with Simon. “Sorry. . . I guess I needed the coffee today.” Martin took another long draw from his mug. 

*     *     *

There was something about Simon—something in his demeanor maybe—that made it too easy for Martin to lapse into pensive but comfortable silences around him. Thinking too much about it boggled Martin’s mind; nothing in the way Simon spoke or acted was calming. He was brash, and as rough at the edges as fresh-torn paper. Perhaps his stark difference from the people Martin had always associated with that had let him find something comforting in the other’s complete lack of social grace. Or it could just have been as simple as necessity; that Simon had wedged himself into Martin’s life at just the right time, and had offered the companionship that Martin was lacking. 

Though Martin had been coming to this coffee shop for a while now, he had sat alone just a few times when he first discovered the place. Back then, it had taken him some time to get there. It had taken months to build up the courage to set for outside on his own for the first time, and for months after that he only ever made it as far as Washington Square Park, which sat just across the street from this cozy little shop. The park had earned the nickname Bughouse Square due to its long tradition of public speeches open to the public, where anyone over the many decades since its inception could take their turn on the soapbox. 

It was this history that had drawn Meredith, the current owner of the Bughouse Bean—the previous owner’s tribute to the park—to the cafe as a college student. She had taken over when he retired, and it was she who told Martin this history between other customers as he sat at her counter on his second or third visit, after a little small talk. Martin had been eager to hear another person’s voice after months as a shut-in, and Meredith had been eager for someone to share her stories with. They sat together in a booth and talked for three hours past closing time.

Simon appeared for the first time on Martin’s next visit and sat next to him at the counter. Meredith had already set Martin’s coffee out, and he could hear the sting of something like impatience in her voice as she had taken Simon’s Ofer of a latte and four orange-and-ginger scones. There had been something else that had colored the tone of her voice then but he hadn’t been able to interpret it.

“Two for my friend here,” Simon had said, as he patted the counter in front of Martin, two gentle raps with a knuckle that Martin felt as vibrations through his elbows. 

Martin, who had reached the point that he had begun to notice the tangible subtleties of sound and vibration, felt a small dish being placed on the counter in front of him and heard the small pastries brush against each other atop it. With some fumbling he found the plate with his fingers and picked up one of the scones. He wanted to weep as his teeth sank in, as the tart of orange zest and the smoky spice of the ginger hit his tongue. It was the first halfway indulgent thing he had eaten in ages, and he hadn’t expected how overwhelming the simplest joys could be after so long in the dark. He remembered Sundays at the farmer’s market with Alice. After a moment of stunned silence, he had remembered his manners. “Ah, thank you—”

“Simon.”

“Simon. Thanks.”

“Not a problem, Martin.” The shadows shifted and Martin felt the proximity of something, a hand extending towards him. 

Martin hesitated a moment, then reached out to shake Simon’s rough, callused hand and quickly let go. How does he-?

“So what’s your story? You look like a guy whose wife just left him.”

Martin had been in the middle of another bite of scone and coughed as crumbs caught in his throat. He reached for his mug and gulped the rest of his coffee. The comment hadn’t stung as much as he had expected it would, but it had caught him off guard. He felt blood pounding at his temples and heard Meredith mutter a curse that sounded a lot like fucking idiot under her breath as she poured another cup of coffee for him. Martin had turned away though, and left without a word, and ignored the calls of the other two. 

It had been nearly two weeks before Martin had returned; he had found that he was far enough into the grieving process that he could hold himself together, but still fragile enough that the wrong comment—no matter how unintentional—could betray his recovery as little more than a little patching up with flimsy tape. He could have gone back much sooner and thought several times that he should have, but he wasn’t ready to play the role of the old man with the broken heart for the public just yet and had stayed at home, curled up in his bed near the closet that still smelled of Alice’s lilac perfume. 

When he had at last returned to the coffee shop after his self-imposed exile, it was to find that Simon was already there, waiting for I’m in a booth at the back of the cafe with more scones, just enough remorse, and a sympathetic ear. He hadn’t pushed Martin to talk, but the longer they sat together in silence, the more Martin had wanted to talk, until he found the words pouring forth. 

And it had continued on this way rom one day to the next; whenever Martin arrived at the coffee shop, Simon was waiting for him in the booth at the back of the cafe no matter the time of day, often staying past closing time. Meredith let the men sit at the counter as she cleaned, and would often join in on their conversations. Somewhere along the way, weeks flew by. 

*     *     *

“Marty, you with me?”

Martin realized he had been lost in thought again as Simon’s voice got through to him at last. He tried to recall what had gotten him so off track and remembered something about. . . Paint? “Yeah. Sorry. Now what are we painting?”

“Jesus, you really are lost.” A thud as Simon slapped the table. “I said I should come over and paint that living room of yours something brighter than that ugly mud sty color. Maybe it’ll cheer you up a bit.”

“Oh, that’ll be nice, except—” Martin held up a hand in front of his own face and waved it side to side a few times. Moving shadows. “I don’t see the benefit of that.”

“I’ve been doing my research, old man. I read that even a case as hopeless as you can still tell the difference between bright and dark.” 

Martin recognized the shapes of the shadows that made up Simon and had to admit that at least this much was true. He hadn’t remembered saying anything about the story of the hideous color of the living room, but there was room in all of their conversations for a detail like the color of a room to slip in without his recollection. “Not a chance in hell.” Martin had at some point begun associating the brown of his living room with Simon. He couldn’t imagine why. “If Joanne comes in some morning and tells me the place has been painted bright green, I’m going to beat you with my cane.” 

Simon barked a laugh. “C’mon, what would Alice think of you resorting to violence over a little paint?” Simon reached across the table to thump Martin on a shoulder. 

“Martin laughed. “She’d say I wasn’t hitting you hard enough, then hand me something sturdier than the cane.” Across the table, Simon chuckled before taking a swig of his coffee. Something nagged at Martin, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He thought it might have been the joke about Alice, but no—he had built up a tougher skin since the first time he’d been caught off guard.

It was something to do with Alice, he realized. After that first time, Simon had gone out of his way to avoid bringing her up by mistake, to the point that his efforts sometimes felt conspicuous. In time as he warmed to Simon, he began to talk at greater length but performed his own excisions of Alice, when the thought of saying her name out loud was too much to bear. And eventually, he moved past that and told Simon some of the stories; the meeting, the camping trip at the edge of the grey lake when it rained the entire time, the travel. He spoke of Alice-in-the-broadest-terms, the version of Alice he could bear to share with the world. There were too many memories he wanted to savor, those small, intimate moments that only lovers appreciate to their fullest. And then at some point he had moved beyond her, as if talking about the parts of her that he could bear to talk about had exorcised her from him, and he had been able to be a man on his own again—Martin, singular. That was the space in which Martin and Simon had become old friends, when they met every day and didn’t need to talk about anything. 

Recently, it was Simon who had begun bringing Alice back into the conversation, through little jokes and off-hand comments. It seemed to Martin that Simon must be getting bored with the comfortable friendship and wanted to shake things up by inviting her back to the table, so to speak. But if that was what Simon was trying to do, it wasn’t his style. It was too subtle. 

Brown. Why did he keep associating that color with Simon? Brown of the earth, the mud wallow, the walls. The walls. Martin was sure he never would have let that slip. That memory had been one that Martin guarded closely, because it was one of the last good memories he had with Alice, and he wanted to hoard away the best memories for the rest of his days. Then how had Simon known about the color? Martin scoffed. And now you’ve gone from sad old man to paranoid old man, he chided himself. You’re handling this well.

“Marty. Martin. Mar. Tin. You having a stroke? Should I call an ambulance? Blink once for yes, twice to say you’re leaving me your worldly possessions.”

“Sorry, sorry. I guess I’m just off today.”

“It’s alright, Marty, I know I have that effect on you.” Simon drummed his fingers on the table. “You want another cup, or should we break early so you can go home and get some rest?”

Martin grasped his empty mug in his hands, considering its weight. “Can I ask you something?” 

“What’s up?”

Martin hesitated, turning the empty mug in his hands, and spilled the dregs on the table in his distraction. There was something going on, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Now or never. “How—“ Martin paused. What if you don’t like what you hear? Is this worth the friendship? Martin considered for a moment, then thought better of it. “Nevermind. I think I just need to call it a day.” He slid to the end of the booth, reached for his cane.

“Spill it, old man.” Simon wasn’t going to let him off the hook, apparently. “What’s got you all worked up?”

Martin shrugged. “It’s stupid, really.” He sensed that Simon wouldn’t just let him go, though, and sighed as he settled back into his seat and turned towards the other man. “How did you know the color of my living room? I never told anyone.”

Simon didn’t answer; he sat in silence. Martin could feel the other man’s eyes on him, as if sizing him up. God, he can be strange. Martin raised his head, waiting. The silence was becoming uncomfortable now. 

The roar of laughter from the other side of the table made Martin jerk backwards in his seat. He could hear the sounds of other diners turning to look their way. “That’s what’s got you acting like such a space case?” He laughed again. “Geez, Marty, you’re a soft touch.” He smacked the tabletop with a hand. Martin heard the dishes rattle. “You strike me as an earth-tones kind of guy.” 

Martin shook his head, and reached for his cane. “I’m not sure about the stories you’ve heard, but I used to be very interesting. I even have a blue room in my house.”

“Is that so?” Simon tossed some cash on the table. Martin reminded himself to bring some extra cash for a tip, tomorrow.

“That’s what Joanne tells me, anyways.” Martin eased himself out of his seat, followed Simon to the exit, and waved when he heard Meredith say goodbye. The chilly autumn air wrapped around him as they stepped outside, and Martin buttoned his coat. “I’d ask her to take a photo so I can show you, but now I’m starting to worry the two of you are in cahoots.” Martin turned right, headed home. Curious.