she says, and he laughs.
“No, I trust that to your expertise.”
He hands her the mop and for the moment before she turns away, he holds her gaze. He sees her. She’s never dated a white man before; they seem to order their espresso drinks without noticing the person on the other side of the counter. Either that, or the glance is purely sexual. His attention seems interested, curious.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” he says. “You’re new?”
“I’ve only been here about a week.”
He nods. “I was on a business trip when you started. I’m Anthony,” he says, extending his hand.
It literally takes her a second to remember the name she’s using here, and she nearly stutters on it. “Brooke. Nice to meet you. Let me put this away and get some coffee for you.”
She turns and retreats to the counter, buzzing a little from the encounter. She returns the mop to the bucket and washes her hands at the small sink. The mop always emits a sour smell when wet, as if milk has formed the majority of its addressed spills.
Anthony has disappeared by the time she looks up to take his order, but a moment later the bathroom door at the rear of the café opens, and he comes out. He must’ve been disgusted by the mop, too, perhaps regretting his impetuous move to take it from her.
“What can I get started for you?” she asks.
“A large Americano.”
“Sure.”
By the time she’s made his drink, there’s a line behind him, so he takes it without anything more than a quick “Thank you” and goes to sit down. She’s disappointed by the abrupt ending, but what did she expect? She looks over at him sitting near the windows, his profile outlined against the rain-battered glass.
Over the next few days, Anthony comes daily to get his Americano and sometimes an orange-cranberry scone. He greets her by name and always a few minutes of small talk, but nothing more arises.
She doesn’t think their brief interactions are worthy of note, but the third time he walks away from the counter, her co-worker Maria crosses her arms and gives Brooke a secretive smile. “Girl, he’s been coming here every day since I started working, and he never so much as looked at me. He must like girls who are more quiet.”
Brooke smiles but doesn’t meet her eyes. Maria’s sexuality is as open as her eyes, mascara applied so heavily each lash operates independently. Her low-cut shirt offers up her breasts, pushed up for view by a bra whose cup tips are visible, supportive caves for the serpent tattoo.
“Go and talk to him,” says Maria. “Take a rag and clean the table next to his.”
Brooke shakes her head.
“You’re crazy, chica!”
“No.”
“Have you ever dated a white guy?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s nice. They’re so like . . . If they don’t see you as a domestic, then they’re super nice because they’re psyched to have someone with hot Latin blood.”
Brooke rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, you laugh, but it’s fun. I highly recommend it.”
Across the café, Anthony lifts his head from his phone and looks straight at Brooke. He smiles, then looks back down.
“Oh, my God! He didn’t hear us, did he?” breathes Brooke.
“No way. It’s too noisy. Plus, what are the odds he knows Spanish?”
“He looked right at us.”
“Correction; he looked at you. And it’s because he’s burning to drape your gorgeous raven locks on his pillow.”
Brooke lets out a howl of laughter and sinks down behind the counter, out of view of the patrons.
“Don’t you think so?” asks Maria.
Unfortunately, Anthony leaves forty minutes later with nothing more than a smile and a two-finger wave. Brooke looks over at Maria, and they both shrug.
The next day, the café’s not too busy when Brooke arrives. She sees a few tables where moms sit chatting while their kids doze in the strollers parked next to them. A man types away on his laptop. A little girl sits by herself playing a game on an iPhone, and Brooke wonders why she’s not in school.
Behind the counter, Maria’s wearing a Beyoncé tour shirt with the sleeves and neckline scissor cut. She looks Brooke up and down in her cropped khakis and black V-neck. “You need some jewelry.”
“Good morning to you, too,” says Brooke.
“You’ve got to try a little harder.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re actually very beautiful, chica, but no one would ever know it the way you carry yourself.”
Brooke doesn’t say anything, just sets her purse down and washes her hands.
“Like, that guy yesterday? If you just showed 1 percent of effort, he’d ask you out.”
“Maybe I have someone already.”
Maria’s eyes widen. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“Because I don’t.”
Maria mock hits her.
“But I don’t need a matchmaker, and I don’t want advice, okay?”
“No one ever wants my advice,” Maria grumbles. “Oh, by the way, the bathroom needs cleaning.”
“Oh.” Brooke smiles to herself; Maria’s friendship only goes so far. She saved the unpleasant job for Brooke. “I’ll just wait for that kid’s mother to come out of the bathroom.” She points at the girl—maybe a ten-year-old?—glassily looking at the phone screen.
“She’s mine,” says Maria. “Babysitter bailed.”
“You have a kid?”
“My pride and joy. Not too thrilled about how she came to me, but I’m sure glad she’s here now.”
She turns back around, effectively ending the conversation. Brooke grabs a pair of food service gloves and walks to the back. Maria’s daughter has long, beautiful hair. She’s a pretty girl, and her vacant expression reminds Brooke of herself at that age—back when her mom was still alive and she didn’t know how good she had it. She’d fight to stay up late to watch movies, sulk when not allowed, resist doing homework, all with a sour face. A few years later, the walls of the world would blow up and she’d be willing to kneel in snow for a year to have her mother back and treat her right.
It’s stupid to try to engage the trying-this-hard-to-be-disaffected,
