Undream the Echoes

Liam
05.29.1998

It is the day after I met Elle in the grocery store, and nine hours after our first date. We have known each other for less than a day and she already hates me.

Trying to impress her last night, I had ordered a very expensive bottle of wine, but I ended up drinking most of it and getting a bit too drunk. I spilled some on her pretty white dress (staining it permanently), got in a fist fight with a waiter when he asked us to leave (getting us kicked out and deeply embarrassing Elle, who apologized to half the restaurant on my part on our way out), and then I had the balls to ask her to come back to my place (earning me a slap across the face and a rather fierce kick to the groin). I am in a lot of pain – from my hangover-induced headache, from the black eye the waiter gave me, and from Elle’s kick – but I don’t feel terrible in just the physical sense. I feel so bad for ruining our date and my possible chances of getting with her. And I feel so bad for Elle. So bad. Last night was supposed to be fun, it was supposed to be my chance to impress her, and all of that was ruined and it is entirely my fault. And it is rare for someone like me to feel regret, since I have always been the sort of person to do whatever I want and not give a damn. But Elle is…I don’t know. Elle is Elle. Elle is different than other girls. She is pretty and captivating and charming and even though I have only known her for a short time, I am completely infatuated with her. Call it lust, call it the excitement of a new relationship, call it whatever you want. I know I have to apologize. It goes against all of my pride, but I have to.

I find Elle at her workplace. It’s not difficult to track her down, because even though Boston is sort of a big city, I’m superbly skilled at being a professional stalker and genuine creep. She works at a small, worn-down café on the corner of Orchard Avenue that smells like tea and jasmine and old books. The wooden floorboards creak a little too loudly and the green floral wallpaper is chipping, but the place is lightened by the lace curtains around the small round windows, and the pretty little pictures hanging on the walls, and the vases of flowers that are in just about every corner. But these things can’t hide the true ancientness of the place; it’s like a little old lady who puts on a lot of makeup in a vain attempt to look young and beautiful again. Still, though, I find the atmosphere in this place comforting. Some people would find it cluttered but others could find it cute. It’s funny how such little things can give a place so much life.

Upstairs is an even smaller boutique that sells vintage things, like furniture and figurines and paintings and clothes and pretty much anything that can be deemed vintage. Elle works there too, sometimes, if she gets enough break time from the café.

As I had learned on our date (in the conversation preceding me getting drunk and acting like a dumbass), Elle owns the café, which is a fact she told me with irony since she majored in mathematics and not business. When I asked her why she chose to buy this place instead of a job having to do with her major, she replied that she didn’t feel like being a high school teacher and no other jobs were open. Math was a cool thing to study, she told me, and although she’s good at it, it really has no place in the real world. The real world doesn’t care about derivatives and integrals and algebra; it cares about who can be the most brutal, who is willing to fight harder than others, who is willing to kill rather than being killed, who will do anything to survive and come out on top.

And besides, when she saw this place is was a “total piece of bird shit,” as she had said, and since she has a knack for taken broken things and turning them into something beautiful, starting a café was something fun for her to do. Before she knew it she was head over heels in love with this quaint place, as well as extremely busy with running it, for although it is small, it seems to be a favorite relaxing spot for old people and couple and art lovers and it is constantly packed. They’re not really my sort of people, so I’ve never actually been to the place before this, but to my surprise I find that I actually like it.

I sit around and wait for her to be free. I can’t see her right now but I know she is working today; therefore she must be in the back room or in her office, dealing with papers or whatever a café owner is supposed to do. Her break time (I learned this last night as well) all depends on how many other employees there are helping her, which fluctuates like the tide, since most of the people who apply for the job are rowdy high school teenagers who Elle hires and fires on a whim. She has never liked kids, and teenagers seem to piss her off even more, so it is no surprise that the kids that work here don’t last for more than three months. It is therefore also no surprise that it is difficult for me to get some alone time to her. But maybe she’s pretending to be busy on purpose in order to avoid me. I want to talk to her, but I know she doesn’t want to talk to me.

After waiting around for twenty minutes near the door, I lose my patience and get fidgety. I order a medium coffee from a young boy with black hair and a lip ring – “Black, no cream or sugar, please” – and take a seat in one of the velvet plush chairs near the window. The furniture is soft and comfortable, but everything is faded and grayed as if a veil of dust is permanently covering everything, which makes me believe that Elle had bought most of the furnishing in this place from the vintage boutique upstairs. “You’re coffee’s ready, dude,” calls the boy from behind the counter, and as I stroll up to retrieve it I am met with a nasty glare from his eyeliner-rimmed eyes. I assume he instinctively hates me because I am normal, a trait I have found in most emo children (or whatever they like to call themselves now). Oh, kids these days. I can see why Elle doesn’t like them very much. I doubt this boy will last more than a few weeks under her authority.

“Would you happen to know where Elle is right now?” I ask in a voice no louder than a murmur to the boy. He scrutinizes me suspiciously, and just as he opens his mouth to answer my question, a voice rings out in the air like bells made of razor blades.

“Jason!” comes a shout from the back room. “You better not have just called a customer dude!” Elle storms out from the back, saying something about “I’m going to fire your ass if you can’t learn to treat our paying customers with respect,” but when she sees me she stops in her tracks. “Oh. It’s you,” she says flatly and then turns to Jason. “You can call him whatever you want. Preferably asshole or cunt face.” The excited grin on Jason’s face is priceless but I’m too stung to notice.

“Elle, wait – ” I say but she has already disappeared in the back. Without hesitation I jump over the counter, ignoring the “Hey, you can’t do that, cunt face!” from the boy, and follow her into the back.

“You’re an idiot for coming to see me. Get out,” she says simply when she notices I have followed her. She does not seem mad, nor is she about to yell at me; instead she has this uncaring demeanor and her words are frosted with ice. I’m not sure what I would rather prefer – for her to be mad and start hitting me, or for her to not even care at all.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” I said, but she’s already shaking her head.

“Last night was a disaster, okay? It’s obvious that things between us aren’t going to work out. Ever.”

“How can you decide that after just one night?” I try, even though I know that last night was a disaster and I must look pretty pathetic right now, especially with my black eye.

“I just know.”

“I want to make things up to you.”

“What part of things are never going to work out do you not understand?”

“I’m an idiot, remember?” I say, trying to lighten the mood with a grin, but I fail miserably.

“Just stop. Stop trying so hard. It’s not going to work. I’m good at reading people; I can tell certain things about their personality right after I meet them. It’s a thing of mine. And I know for a fact, Liam, that you are not a person I would like in my life. So if you could please leave my café now, that would be great.”

I try to protest but her back is already turned against me. I know Elle is the stubborn type and not the sort of person to give others a second chance (at least not to me, after what I did, and I have to admit I deserve it), but I try again anyway. “Please Elle, just give me one more chance – ”

“Goodbye, Liam.” Her voice is clipped and I know it is time to go.

Letting out a sorrowful sigh, I leave the back room and exit the café. “Goodbye cunt face!” the boy calls after me as I walk out.

I feel defeated. And hurt. And stupid. Normally I give up on girls quickly if they give me a hard time, because I know I can find another one soon. But Elle is different. Elle is Elle. And I now know that I cannot be Liam without my Elle. And I know that I am a fighter. And I will not give up so easily this time. I will win Elle back, even if it kills me.