Imposter Syndrome by D. C. Martin
Danielle seeks inspiration for her writing from the patrons of the Strawberry Café, but feels like an imposter in her own life.
Danielle Bennett used to find inspiration through observation. And she found it everywhere. At the Strawberry Café, for example. Faces spoke to her; eyes were emotions, wrinkles were experience, expressions were attitudes. Little pieces of life, tiny pictures. It didn't matter if she got people wrong because it wasn't judgement, it wasn't criticism, and it wasn't personal. What she wanted was free, and it used to drip faster than sap from a spring maple. What she wanted was detail, visual facts, gritty reality. Stubbly faces or worn-down hoodies. Restless legs or doom-scrolling thumbs. First date jitters or teary breakups. She got impatience, she got acceptance; petulance, grief, vanity and misery. Faces spoke to her in short, angry bursts and long, dull conversations. She used to get it all at the café.
And then the whole machine broke down. Not a flat tire. Not an overheated engine. A total breakdown.
Her story title, The Second Person, would slowly fade as she stared, it would slowly fade to black. She couldn't save its life with an opening line. And without an opening line, she was lost. Lost in the cavernous emptiness of her sparkless mind.
But she was the first person in the café today, and she was finally going to write. It didn't matter if she felt inspired or not. It didn't matter about her process. As soon as someone walked in, she was going to write. She had promised her writing group that she would follow through, and she was going to be true to her word.
A man walked in, and Danielle saw her everything in him instantly. She saw commitment in his long hair, care in his sculpted beard, refinement in his watch, character in his round lenses, and she saw beauty in his features. Understated beauty.
The second person breezes through the doorway as cool as the mid-March wind. He catches your eye in a half-glance. Did he catch your gaze too quickly, was the jig up? As it had been for scores of second men, for armies of rebound recruits. He pushes the door closed; he's considerate, gallant, heroic. When the door closes it rings the bell. This handsome customer could ring your bell any time. He gets an espresso. Simple, unfussy. You sense his gaze return to you, but slide your focus down your spoon, gently swimming circles through the top of your decaf latte with soy milk. A heart within a heart, framed in concentric circles.
You think about how you would start a conversation with him, how you might introduce yourself.
"My name is Danielle Bennett. I'm in revenue management. Don't know what that means? Let me explain. You know how things seem way too expensive and you can't figure out why people keep putting up with it? That's me, I do that. Still interested, eh? You're a catch. My spare time? Sure, I do stuff in my spare time. Right now, I'm working on a story that will be rejected by at least fifty literary magazines. How 'bout you?"
He takes a book out of his smart leather satchel. It's Louise Penny. Your heart races, you've fallen in love again.
Of course, Danielle would never find the confidence to actually look up, nor the clairvoyance to guess if he would talk to her. Her inspiration was long gone by the time she pulled her eyes away from her old Mac, already begging for a charge. She closed it and took a cool sip from her latte, satisfied with a good start.
"He takes a book out of his smart leather satchel," Danielle said out loud, fearing an awkward turn of phrase. The first bump on the road through a sprawling highway of gripping suspense.
"I'm sorry, did you need something?" Madysen the barista asked, looking up quizzically from her phone, sliding designer frames back up her nose.
"Me? No. All good." Now was as good a time as any to head home. As she walked, Danielle noted the ways that winter's edge had softened. Birds were chirping and snowbanks were receding. The air was crisp and the puddles on the sidewalks shallow. Spring was almost here.
"He takes out a book from his smart leather satchel," Danielle said in a whisper, unconvinced, closing the door to her lonely apartment. She took off her glasses and rubbed the top of her forehead, trying to think of a justified way to procrastinate. The answer presented itself, as Shirley Jackson stretched out her front paws and kneaded them into the carpet before strolling over and rubbing into Danielle's calf, purring with anticipation. There was nothing left on her schedule besides feeding the cat, eating a hot dinner and taking a warm bath.
Shirley Jackson's paws worked to pry the bathroom door open as soon as Danielle closed it. She looked in the mirror. It had only been a mole, she told herself, gazing back at her cheek. But it was completely gone. She rubbed the condensation off the bathroom mirror again. Just a mole. Do they disappear? She couldn't look away from the mirror. Something about her reflection was different. She had never regarded the mirror with this much doubt. Can you really see this face on the back of a best-selling novel?
"You're going to do this, Danielle, you're going to start writing again." She smiled and her reflection smiled back.
"And you're going to talk to him."
You return to the café at the same time of day, and you tell yourself not to get your hopes up. He's here for business from out of town. He's only stopped in this one time and he hated their espresso. The Louise Penny book was a gift, and he opened it up and loathed it. He's a dog person, he's MAGA...
He's back! You plunge your face back into your Mac as the tiny bell finishes its song. You think about looking up, looking around the room, glancing at the menu. You slowly look up, and he's right in front of you.
"Hi," he says.
Why on Earth would he talk to her, Danielle pondered, grinding her teeth slightly. Set it in the past: he wants to know what year it is. Set it in the future: he has to warn her about AI. Or maybe:
"Excuse me, did you know that your hair is on fire?"
"Have you heard the good news?"
"Do you know the Wi-Fi password?"
"Do you know the Wi-Fi password?" he asks, phone in hand. His eyes said so much more.
"It's coffeeteaorme?123 and I'm not kidding."
He laughs with his whole face, blue eyes dazzling under his round, tortoise-shell frames. "You must come here often," he says, and immediately blushes. He actually blushes. "I am experiencing instant regret for that last thing. Thank you for your help with the Wi-Fi." He returns to his seat.
A woman walks in and starts talking to the barista. She's much older than you, but she's very attractive. She takes off her hat to reveal shiny blonde hair. She shows the barista something on her phone. She's very serious. Her coffee is ready. She shakes hands with the barista and walks out.
You wonder about that. What's happening in this town?
Danielle thought about how she was thrilled that he actually talked to her but devastated about how it came to an end. In any case, someone had been waiting all day to be fed.
"Why, Shirley Jackson? Why do these things have to be so difficult?"
Shirley Jackson yawned widely, and Danielle was reminded of the cat's rampant halitosis. Determined to preserve her feline friend's dignity, Danielle steered clear of criticism.
"What brand of mouthwash would you recommend, Ms. Jackson? I'm considering a change."
Shirley Jackson looked away, utterly insulted. Danielle filled her bowl again, a thankless job.
"I wish you could tell me what to do next. He's a great guy, Shirl." Shirley Jackson did a big stretch, pushing into Danielle's thigh. It was clear that the cat needed the whole couch to stretch out. Danielle threw back the contents of her wine glass and got ready for bed.
The mirror tried to hijack Danielle's happiness again. She lifted her glasses above her brow and put them back again. She stared at her jaw as her reflection moved from side to side. It looked good, better than before, but not quite right.
Can the shape of your jaw change? Why do I look different? Am I imagining these changes? For a second, for just an instant she saw herself slam her face through the mirror, sending cracks and shards racing to its edges. Sharp lines filled with blood like veins. Her face came back into focus through broken lines and distorted angles. Her forehead was a mess of tears and grooves, spilling red into the bathroom tile grout, just in front of her toenails.
But it wouldn't stem her suspicion, and it wouldn't be satisfying. Her mind flashed quickly back to the bloodied girl in the shattered mirror, a fledgling grin on her face. Maybe it would be satisfying after all. The very thought of that scared her. Maybe this wasn't just self-doubt. Maybe it went past imposter syndrome into darker territory. She could throw it all away and start over, she wouldn't need to be Danielle Bennett anymore. No one would ever miss her. Danielle began consulting her phone. Google had an answer for everything, but it was unsettling and certainly not what she wanted to hear. She would figure this out on her own.
She looked at her hands. She always had pretty hands. Soft hands with tiny, delicate, statuesque porcelain fingers. She looked at them now and hated her hands. They used to be young and soft. Now you could see through them to vein and bone. The backs of her hands had the texture of the bare roots of trees as the snow melted around them. Her hands, her fingers, had become dry and gnarled; leathery, coarse and untouchable.
More important was her story. She would open the file and think about him again. In fact, she couldn't stop thinking about him, but it didn't help the story. And it was just blank. Just blank and blank and blank some more. Danielle stared at her screen, but it didn't change. That was it; she bought a new Mac.
Trips to the café continued, but she never saw him. Her new computer didn't make things better either, but it held a longer charge. She would stare at it for hours, wanting to trade all her wasted time for even a second with him. She couldn't feel like herself again, she needed her fingers to find the keyboard, she needed to empty her ideas into a story, like the one she was living.
Danielle Bennett felt trapped
Danielle Bennett lit a cigarette
Danielle Bennett walked away
Danielle Bennett looked in the mirror...
The bell would ring every now and then, but it was never him.
Danielle rarely wore lipstick, but he might come back to the café today. Something told her that today would be special. She pursed her lips together and stuck them out, turning side to side, regarding her face critically. She smoothed out the top of her blouse and corrected a wisp of hair that had strayed from her claw clip. She undid it and let her hair flow freely, finger-combing it a little in the front. Her hands, they were smooth again, they had the delicate beauty she missed. She felt their touch against each other, their softness, their silkiness, their youth, their perfection.
Danielle Bennett looked in the mirror. Her reflection became mysterious. As she examined her face, it seemed like her eyebrows were darker, just a shade, but darker. The bridge of her nose was more angular, sharper. There was something else different, too. Not that Danielle could put her finger on it. Something was off about the way her reflection moved, like the mirror was lagging behind, not showing her in real time. Danielle became completely still, like a picture, the picture of her ideal self. But the reflection fractured into a million pieces. She wanted to rip the mirror off the wall, until it settled into an image she could accept.
She kissed out her lips for the mirror. She looked good. People ruin their lives when they give in to suspicion. She turned to leave and looked back suddenly, but her reflection caught up just in time, sending her a curled lip, a smirk, a grin.
She had a date tonight, she knew it. But when she got to the café, she was alone. This time, the second person was the woman from yesterday, the blond woman. She ordered and then came right over to Danielle's table.
"Excuse me. I hate to bother you, but I think you come here often, right?"
"Sure," Danielle couldn't figure out why, but she became quite nervous.
"I'm trying to find a friend of mine. I'm wondering if you've seen her."
She showed Danielle a picture. A beautiful woman smiling with a glass of white wine.
"Wow. No, I think I'd remember her."
"If you do see her, please call us with a location."
"Of course, what's the problem?"
"The problem is that predators exist everywhere, even in sleepy towns like Argyle. Anyway, enjoy your latte." The woman presented Danielle with her card. Alice Stevens, Argyle Police Services.
Danielle didn't think he was a predator. But that's why they exist, right? They win you over, they gain your trust. They have charm, presence. Nobody ever suspects them.
He's here, and he made the bell sing.
After he closes the door, he looks for you and then your eyes meet. He smiles and nods. He walks over.
"A top-up?" he asks, even though your cup is full to the brim. He practiced this you idiot, you say to yourself, as you chug back half your latte.
"What's your name?" he asks as you forget your name for the first time ever.
"It's... It's Danielle."
His eyes are bluer than blue, and they're all yours. His gaze is fixed on you. This is working, Danielle! You're reeling him in.
"My name is Craig. And since we're having coffee here, in this café, I feel like we're on our first date."
"Craig, I have to go. I can't explain. I just have to go."
Shirley Jackson was atop the couch, reclining on her side. She had been dead to the world until Danielle walked in. She started vigorously licking herself just below the ribcage.
"I'm doing it to myself." Danielle drank most of the boxed wine from the fridge. "Craig will never understand. It was hopeless from the beginning."
She looked in the mirror again. "What do you want?"
Danielle began braiding her hair. She'd been using it as a calming exercise since grade three. She smoothed out everything first, then patiently divided her hair into thirds. The rest was meditative, looping and securing, turning and tightening.
Danielle waited a week before returning to the Strawberry Café. Madysen nodded and brought her a decaf latte just like she always did. She looked at the barista, who was looking into her phone. Madysen was blurry. The menu behind her was blurry, too. Maybe I need a new prescription, Danielle thought, as she sprayed and wiped down her lenses. She was shocked as she looked back at the barista in vivid detail while her glasses remained in her hands. She put them back on and panned through a café with dull edges and bleeding margins. Her eyes had corrected themselves.
Then Craig walked in. Danielle smiled at him and he smiled back and quickly looked away. He walked over to a table at the back. There she was - Danielle's reflection! She had that big, ugly mole. She had that droopy jaw. She even had the ancient Apple computer. Her hair was frizzy, her hands were gnarled, and she wasn't wearing lipstick. In fact, she wasn't wearing any makeup at all.
You look up after you write the last line of your story and you see that Craig has set off the bell. His chestnut hair shines in the sun of a late spring morning and he walks past the counter because he knows what's happened.
"You finished it!"
You stand up and hug him hard.
"You're my inspiration! I finished my story because of you."
"I refuse to take any credit for your work. You did this on your own. I'm just glad I can share this moment with you."
You sit down with Craig; you love him. He looks at you and says, "I love you, Danielle. I am so lucky I found you."
He orders an espresso and says, "Every moment of your life is a story. All you need to decide is which parts to keep and which parts to cut."
Danielle wanted to smash that girl's face into the coffee table. She watched herself doing it, over and over. Gripping her frizzy ponytail - she could feel the tension, the tightness - and then slamming her face down through the glass. Sharp edges ripping the delicate fibers of her skin. Tearing away Danielle's likeness, her identity. Peeling off her shell until she was reduced to what she really was: an imposter. She was hollow, she was fake, she was nothing. She didn't deserve him.
Danielle stood up; she was going to confront this ugly asshole. She was going to put her in her place. And then she heard her reflection laughing. She saw her reflection smiling and she caught herself, her old self, living in a moment. Experiencing joy.
Danielle packed her brand-new Mac into her backpack; she brought her cup and saucer to the counter and nodded to Madysen. She looked back at the couple in the corner of the room. They were in love. She rubbed away a tear.
She never returned to the Strawberry Café.
You feel sorry for that beautiful, perfect, awkward woman who leaves the café. She looks back in. She's crying openly now as her pace quickens. You feel a connection with her, like she's a long-lost friend or a relative. A desperate, shadowy reflection. You hope she finds her way, as long as she stays the hell away from you.
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/IKBD1GY
via IFTTT
 |
| Image generated with OpenAI |
And then the whole machine broke down. Not a flat tire. Not an overheated engine. A total breakdown.
Her story title, The Second Person, would slowly fade as she stared, it would slowly fade to black. She couldn't save its life with an opening line. And without an opening line, she was lost. Lost in the cavernous emptiness of her sparkless mind.
But she was the first person in the café today, and she was finally going to write. It didn't matter if she felt inspired or not. It didn't matter about her process. As soon as someone walked in, she was going to write. She had promised her writing group that she would follow through, and she was going to be true to her word.
A man walked in, and Danielle saw her everything in him instantly. She saw commitment in his long hair, care in his sculpted beard, refinement in his watch, character in his round lenses, and she saw beauty in his features. Understated beauty.
The second person breezes through the doorway as cool as the mid-March wind. He catches your eye in a half-glance. Did he catch your gaze too quickly, was the jig up? As it had been for scores of second men, for armies of rebound recruits. He pushes the door closed; he's considerate, gallant, heroic. When the door closes it rings the bell. This handsome customer could ring your bell any time. He gets an espresso. Simple, unfussy. You sense his gaze return to you, but slide your focus down your spoon, gently swimming circles through the top of your decaf latte with soy milk. A heart within a heart, framed in concentric circles.
You think about how you would start a conversation with him, how you might introduce yourself.
"My name is Danielle Bennett. I'm in revenue management. Don't know what that means? Let me explain. You know how things seem way too expensive and you can't figure out why people keep putting up with it? That's me, I do that. Still interested, eh? You're a catch. My spare time? Sure, I do stuff in my spare time. Right now, I'm working on a story that will be rejected by at least fifty literary magazines. How 'bout you?"
He takes a book out of his smart leather satchel. It's Louise Penny. Your heart races, you've fallen in love again.
Of course, Danielle would never find the confidence to actually look up, nor the clairvoyance to guess if he would talk to her. Her inspiration was long gone by the time she pulled her eyes away from her old Mac, already begging for a charge. She closed it and took a cool sip from her latte, satisfied with a good start.
"He takes a book out of his smart leather satchel," Danielle said out loud, fearing an awkward turn of phrase. The first bump on the road through a sprawling highway of gripping suspense.
"I'm sorry, did you need something?" Madysen the barista asked, looking up quizzically from her phone, sliding designer frames back up her nose.
"Me? No. All good." Now was as good a time as any to head home. As she walked, Danielle noted the ways that winter's edge had softened. Birds were chirping and snowbanks were receding. The air was crisp and the puddles on the sidewalks shallow. Spring was almost here.
"He takes out a book from his smart leather satchel," Danielle said in a whisper, unconvinced, closing the door to her lonely apartment. She took off her glasses and rubbed the top of her forehead, trying to think of a justified way to procrastinate. The answer presented itself, as Shirley Jackson stretched out her front paws and kneaded them into the carpet before strolling over and rubbing into Danielle's calf, purring with anticipation. There was nothing left on her schedule besides feeding the cat, eating a hot dinner and taking a warm bath.
Shirley Jackson's paws worked to pry the bathroom door open as soon as Danielle closed it. She looked in the mirror. It had only been a mole, she told herself, gazing back at her cheek. But it was completely gone. She rubbed the condensation off the bathroom mirror again. Just a mole. Do they disappear? She couldn't look away from the mirror. Something about her reflection was different. She had never regarded the mirror with this much doubt. Can you really see this face on the back of a best-selling novel?
"You're going to do this, Danielle, you're going to start writing again." She smiled and her reflection smiled back.
"And you're going to talk to him."
You return to the café at the same time of day, and you tell yourself not to get your hopes up. He's here for business from out of town. He's only stopped in this one time and he hated their espresso. The Louise Penny book was a gift, and he opened it up and loathed it. He's a dog person, he's MAGA...
He's back! You plunge your face back into your Mac as the tiny bell finishes its song. You think about looking up, looking around the room, glancing at the menu. You slowly look up, and he's right in front of you.
"Hi," he says.
Why on Earth would he talk to her, Danielle pondered, grinding her teeth slightly. Set it in the past: he wants to know what year it is. Set it in the future: he has to warn her about AI. Or maybe:
"Excuse me, did you know that your hair is on fire?"
"Have you heard the good news?"
"Do you know the Wi-Fi password?"
"Do you know the Wi-Fi password?" he asks, phone in hand. His eyes said so much more.
"It's coffeeteaorme?123 and I'm not kidding."
He laughs with his whole face, blue eyes dazzling under his round, tortoise-shell frames. "You must come here often," he says, and immediately blushes. He actually blushes. "I am experiencing instant regret for that last thing. Thank you for your help with the Wi-Fi." He returns to his seat.
A woman walks in and starts talking to the barista. She's much older than you, but she's very attractive. She takes off her hat to reveal shiny blonde hair. She shows the barista something on her phone. She's very serious. Her coffee is ready. She shakes hands with the barista and walks out.
You wonder about that. What's happening in this town?
Danielle thought about how she was thrilled that he actually talked to her but devastated about how it came to an end. In any case, someone had been waiting all day to be fed.
"Why, Shirley Jackson? Why do these things have to be so difficult?"
Shirley Jackson yawned widely, and Danielle was reminded of the cat's rampant halitosis. Determined to preserve her feline friend's dignity, Danielle steered clear of criticism.
"What brand of mouthwash would you recommend, Ms. Jackson? I'm considering a change."
Shirley Jackson looked away, utterly insulted. Danielle filled her bowl again, a thankless job.
"I wish you could tell me what to do next. He's a great guy, Shirl." Shirley Jackson did a big stretch, pushing into Danielle's thigh. It was clear that the cat needed the whole couch to stretch out. Danielle threw back the contents of her wine glass and got ready for bed.
The mirror tried to hijack Danielle's happiness again. She lifted her glasses above her brow and put them back again. She stared at her jaw as her reflection moved from side to side. It looked good, better than before, but not quite right.
Can the shape of your jaw change? Why do I look different? Am I imagining these changes? For a second, for just an instant she saw herself slam her face through the mirror, sending cracks and shards racing to its edges. Sharp lines filled with blood like veins. Her face came back into focus through broken lines and distorted angles. Her forehead was a mess of tears and grooves, spilling red into the bathroom tile grout, just in front of her toenails.
But it wouldn't stem her suspicion, and it wouldn't be satisfying. Her mind flashed quickly back to the bloodied girl in the shattered mirror, a fledgling grin on her face. Maybe it would be satisfying after all. The very thought of that scared her. Maybe this wasn't just self-doubt. Maybe it went past imposter syndrome into darker territory. She could throw it all away and start over, she wouldn't need to be Danielle Bennett anymore. No one would ever miss her. Danielle began consulting her phone. Google had an answer for everything, but it was unsettling and certainly not what she wanted to hear. She would figure this out on her own.
She looked at her hands. She always had pretty hands. Soft hands with tiny, delicate, statuesque porcelain fingers. She looked at them now and hated her hands. They used to be young and soft. Now you could see through them to vein and bone. The backs of her hands had the texture of the bare roots of trees as the snow melted around them. Her hands, her fingers, had become dry and gnarled; leathery, coarse and untouchable.
More important was her story. She would open the file and think about him again. In fact, she couldn't stop thinking about him, but it didn't help the story. And it was just blank. Just blank and blank and blank some more. Danielle stared at her screen, but it didn't change. That was it; she bought a new Mac.
Trips to the café continued, but she never saw him. Her new computer didn't make things better either, but it held a longer charge. She would stare at it for hours, wanting to trade all her wasted time for even a second with him. She couldn't feel like herself again, she needed her fingers to find the keyboard, she needed to empty her ideas into a story, like the one she was living.
Danielle Bennett looked in the mirror...
The bell would ring every now and then, but it was never him.
Danielle rarely wore lipstick, but he might come back to the café today. Something told her that today would be special. She pursed her lips together and stuck them out, turning side to side, regarding her face critically. She smoothed out the top of her blouse and corrected a wisp of hair that had strayed from her claw clip. She undid it and let her hair flow freely, finger-combing it a little in the front. Her hands, they were smooth again, they had the delicate beauty she missed. She felt their touch against each other, their softness, their silkiness, their youth, their perfection.
Danielle Bennett looked in the mirror. Her reflection became mysterious. As she examined her face, it seemed like her eyebrows were darker, just a shade, but darker. The bridge of her nose was more angular, sharper. There was something else different, too. Not that Danielle could put her finger on it. Something was off about the way her reflection moved, like the mirror was lagging behind, not showing her in real time. Danielle became completely still, like a picture, the picture of her ideal self. But the reflection fractured into a million pieces. She wanted to rip the mirror off the wall, until it settled into an image she could accept.
She kissed out her lips for the mirror. She looked good. People ruin their lives when they give in to suspicion. She turned to leave and looked back suddenly, but her reflection caught up just in time, sending her a curled lip, a smirk, a grin.
She had a date tonight, she knew it. But when she got to the café, she was alone. This time, the second person was the woman from yesterday, the blond woman. She ordered and then came right over to Danielle's table.
"Excuse me. I hate to bother you, but I think you come here often, right?"
"Sure," Danielle couldn't figure out why, but she became quite nervous.
"I'm trying to find a friend of mine. I'm wondering if you've seen her."
She showed Danielle a picture. A beautiful woman smiling with a glass of white wine.
"Wow. No, I think I'd remember her."
"If you do see her, please call us with a location."
"Of course, what's the problem?"
"The problem is that predators exist everywhere, even in sleepy towns like Argyle. Anyway, enjoy your latte." The woman presented Danielle with her card. Alice Stevens, Argyle Police Services.
Danielle didn't think he was a predator. But that's why they exist, right? They win you over, they gain your trust. They have charm, presence. Nobody ever suspects them.
He's here, and he made the bell sing.
After he closes the door, he looks for you and then your eyes meet. He smiles and nods. He walks over.
"A top-up?" he asks, even though your cup is full to the brim. He practiced this you idiot, you say to yourself, as you chug back half your latte.
"What's your name?" he asks as you forget your name for the first time ever.
"It's... It's Danielle."
His eyes are bluer than blue, and they're all yours. His gaze is fixed on you. This is working, Danielle! You're reeling him in.
"My name is Craig. And since we're having coffee here, in this café, I feel like we're on our first date."
"Craig, I have to go. I can't explain. I just have to go."
Shirley Jackson was atop the couch, reclining on her side. She had been dead to the world until Danielle walked in. She started vigorously licking herself just below the ribcage.
"I'm doing it to myself." Danielle drank most of the boxed wine from the fridge. "Craig will never understand. It was hopeless from the beginning."
She looked in the mirror again. "What do you want?"
Danielle began braiding her hair. She'd been using it as a calming exercise since grade three. She smoothed out everything first, then patiently divided her hair into thirds. The rest was meditative, looping and securing, turning and tightening.
Danielle waited a week before returning to the Strawberry Café. Madysen nodded and brought her a decaf latte just like she always did. She looked at the barista, who was looking into her phone. Madysen was blurry. The menu behind her was blurry, too. Maybe I need a new prescription, Danielle thought, as she sprayed and wiped down her lenses. She was shocked as she looked back at the barista in vivid detail while her glasses remained in her hands. She put them back on and panned through a café with dull edges and bleeding margins. Her eyes had corrected themselves.
Then Craig walked in. Danielle smiled at him and he smiled back and quickly looked away. He walked over to a table at the back. There she was - Danielle's reflection! She had that big, ugly mole. She had that droopy jaw. She even had the ancient Apple computer. Her hair was frizzy, her hands were gnarled, and she wasn't wearing lipstick. In fact, she wasn't wearing any makeup at all.
You look up after you write the last line of your story and you see that Craig has set off the bell. His chestnut hair shines in the sun of a late spring morning and he walks past the counter because he knows what's happened.
"You finished it!"
You stand up and hug him hard.
"You're my inspiration! I finished my story because of you."
"I refuse to take any credit for your work. You did this on your own. I'm just glad I can share this moment with you."
You sit down with Craig; you love him. He looks at you and says, "I love you, Danielle. I am so lucky I found you."
He orders an espresso and says, "Every moment of your life is a story. All you need to decide is which parts to keep and which parts to cut."
Danielle wanted to smash that girl's face into the coffee table. She watched herself doing it, over and over. Gripping her frizzy ponytail - she could feel the tension, the tightness - and then slamming her face down through the glass. Sharp edges ripping the delicate fibers of her skin. Tearing away Danielle's likeness, her identity. Peeling off her shell until she was reduced to what she really was: an imposter. She was hollow, she was fake, she was nothing. She didn't deserve him.
Danielle stood up; she was going to confront this ugly asshole. She was going to put her in her place. And then she heard her reflection laughing. She saw her reflection smiling and she caught herself, her old self, living in a moment. Experiencing joy.
Danielle packed her brand-new Mac into her backpack; she brought her cup and saucer to the counter and nodded to Madysen. She looked back at the couple in the corner of the room. They were in love. She rubbed away a tear.
She never returned to the Strawberry Café.
You feel sorry for that beautiful, perfect, awkward woman who leaves the café. She looks back in. She's crying openly now as her pace quickens. You feel a connection with her, like she's a long-lost friend or a relative. A desperate, shadowy reflection. You hope she finds her way, as long as she stays the hell away from you.
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/IKBD1GY
via IFTTT
Comments
Post a Comment