Liminal

Prelude to a song

Brooklyn, Autumn of 1991

"Do you ever wonder if some souls are just matched, fated to meet? Think about it. There are one and a half million residents in Manhattan. Seven million for the whole city. Seven. How do you look at one person out of all these lost souls and think, 'Yeah, they're the one'?"

Jennie's expression was vacant. "Here's your double shot espresso, Rosie. You don't really need it, but don't mind me."

Rosie rolled her eyes and fixed her beanie before gently taking the cup. "You're as bitter as my coffee."

Jennie smirked while taking Rosie's payment. "For the love of God," she added, turning around and gripping the tip jar, "keep me alive." She waved the mason jar in her customer's face, who let out an annoying chortle in response. Rosie made a performance out of finding and dropping a dollar inside. "That's the last of my cash."

"Then maybe you shouldn't be buying coffee that's worth almost a dollar several times a day."

"Maybe you should ask for a raise," Rosie said with a playful smirk. The writer tapped the counter with her knuckles, then turned to the exit. "See you later."

The barista mumbled a goodbye, her focus on the clipboard she held, checking off the daily tasks she had accomplished since opening the café. The door chimed. Her smile was automatic as she greeted two customers whose daily ritual she had already memorized. They stayed for a while and chattered, occasionally asking for her opinion.

It was almost on schedule. An elderly couple would sit at the outdoor nook, a spot the owner designed to welcome even non-customers. She promptly made their regular orders, took them out, and sat with them for a few minutes before they continued their walk.

It was almost on schedule. She served close to eighty customers before her lunch break and about forty before her shift ended. She'd memorized about sixty percent of them after a few months. She remembered their names, their biggest gripes, what their exes did, their opinion on the president, their favorite TV shows, and even the names of their first pets.

And it was almost always on schedule that a certain tall, chirpy writer would announce her presence with her thoughts on love and life, just minutes after the barista started her shift. Rosie had been a fixture for months now, something Jennie clocked the first time the artist walked in. Rosie was a lot friendlier than most regulars, offering information about herself that a random person serving coffee probably shouldn't know. By now, Jennie knew Rosie was from a town near Boulder, Colorado, had two siblings, and that both her parents were doctors.

Jennie knew the story well. Artists had converged on New York for decades, and the past few years were no exception. Rosie was an aspiring writer struggling to make ends meet. Jennie knew it was part of the charm. She reckoned the girl needed more nourishment than caffeine alone, but the blonde always talked about being too broke. Jennie had sometimes snuck a cookie or two onto her tab out of pity. Whatever her situation, Rosie seemed to always carry the sun in her pocket.

She was always dashing somewhere, and that day was no exception. Rosie came in, announcing her arrival with that silly question. Always with that silly question. And Jennie never answered it, not in the way Rosie wanted. The writer would then settle down for half an hour at most.

"Settling" was probably the wrong word. Rosie was always writing in her notebook or going through newspapers for writing gigs. She was focused but restless, Jennie noted, like a bee. And just like that, after a couple more customers were served, Rosie was at the door, waving goodbye.

Jennie began working on the inventory. "No one likes this blend," she thought, counting the almost untouched product. She lined a few up in the front row of the display shelf anyway. Half an hour later, her shift buddy arrived, and it was time to go home to a quiet apartment where her grumpy cat was waiting to be fed.