Breaking Suburbia

The café wasn’t one that Maggie had ever been inside. She’d lived in this town for the entirety of her years and she’d never stumbled into the doors of the quaint place. Behind the towering steel top counter there was an older gentleman with a lightly frosted mustache, like snow dusting the asphalt in the beginning phases of winter. He didn’t wear a nametag. Maggie knew that he probably didn’t need one, not many traveled through here, and not many left. This man had probably been as constant behind the counter in the café as the retro interior.

“They have the best French Toast here.” Chester quipped.

“I doubt it.” Maggie rolled her eyes. She knew that she came off cool and aloof, but someone had to compromise Chester’s warmth, apparently life hadn’t got around to that yet.

Chester raised his eyebrows, audibly exhaling in either annoyance of disappointment. Maggie could see he was trying really hard, so she helped him out a little. “My mother makes the best French Toast.” She frowned; ‘mother’ was a hard word to choke out.

“Is that why you don’t come out of your house?” Chester fired away in similarity to a child. Maggie glared at him and he returned the gesture with something equally ferocious. After several seconds of the intense silence that spoke multitudes of words in itself, Maggie’s savior came to her.

“Hello, how are we doing today?” The strawberry blonde waitress inserted herself into the conversation. Maggie knew she looked familiar.

“Well.” Maggie cleared her throat, ducking her face down into the menu. Chester rattled off some optimistic bullshit which turned the girl into a blushing mess. Maggie felt the green seep into the pale pigmentations of her face.

Snapping her head back over to the waitress, Maggie interrupted the obvious ogling between the man and the woman. “Can I have an orange juice please?”

Chester gave Maggie a sly smirk, and in that moment, Maggie knew she had been caught. “Of course.” The woman’s tone nearly cut through Maggie’s steel armor of apathy. “And for you, sweetie?” She winked at Chester. Writhing internally, Maggie nearly burst at the flirtatious banter that the two extroverts in the scenario shared.

“Same as the cutie over there.”

Maggie felt a sick urge to stick her face in the heating deep fryers beginning to gurgle in the distance, but not out of sight, kitchens. She asked herself why she was so stupid, why she had accepted this date, and at this point, why she ever thought a guitar was a great idea. “So, is Maggie you’re real name?” Chester broke the deep thinking of the honey blonde.

She shrugged. “Yeah, my real name is Maggie.” It was just repetitive answers that didn’t provide for any real thought. Maggie could do this sort of socialization. There were no emotions involved, nothing that would attach or reveal her besides the technical.

“How long have you lived in the house?”

“Since I was a child.” Maggie felt her skin run cold. She could already sense the next question, and it wasn’t one she was particularly fond of answering.

Chester was distracted though, as the waitress brought their drink orders and inquired about their decisions as far as food, he dismissed her politely. Maggie knew this was a ploy. “So your mother makes the best French Toast?”

“My mother is dead.” Maggie clenched her teeth together. There was no use in dodging the topic. At least, this way, she could make Chester uncomfortable.

But no, uncomfortable was not a valid emotion for Chester, because his face shone with this curiosity as soon as the word ‘dead’ came out of her mouth. Maggie could see the transformation. “How long has it been?”

“Why don’t you tell me about you?” Maggie bitterly replied, sipping on the orange juice. The toothpaste that lingered in her mouth made it difficult for her to gulp down the pulpy liquid she assumed was hand squeezed in the back. Alas, she managed, but it gave her the most nauseous and lightheaded sensations. Now she was really in the mood for a week or two of utter solitude.

Chester stared out the blinds, the sun was peaking from behind the building at this point in time, but still far enough back to keep the diner at a reasonable brightness. “I work in a music shop, I play guitar, and I am classically trained in the violin.” Chester beamed.

“I’m a writer, a beginning musician, and I’m an internet enthusiast.”

“How do you live like you do?” Chester followed straight afterwards.

Maggie huffed; she was getting rather tired of that instantaneous questioning. Actually, she was getting quite tired in general. “Honestly, did you listen to me or did you just wait for your turn to talk?” Maggie edgily queried. Chester’s face reddened and the waitress decided to do her job and come back to the table.

Before she could start, Maggie picked the first item on the menu and rudely sputtered it off. “One everything bagel with a side of fruit salad and an egg sunny side up, please.” She batted her eyelashes in mockery.

“I’ll have the French toast.” Chester faked the largest smile Maggie had ever seen on him before.

“Typical Chessie.” The waitress bubbly exclaimed while sending Maggie the eyes a jury gives to a gruesome murderer. Her delicate little fingers painted a flashy red brushed against Chester’s shoulder. The talon trailed down his arm in the most pseudo-seductive manner. Maggie couldn’t help the involuntary action that her own orbs made. As the waitress left, Chester began laughing inappropriately.

Crossing her arms and sinking into her seat, Maggie wanted out so badly. She hated being around people like Chester. But, if some of that happiness could rub off on her, Maggie would gratefully take it. “Don’t try to hide your disgust.” He chuckled, taking a sip of the sunshine colored juice.

Up and down, the involuntary shrug of Maggie didn’t seem to appease the teasing mannerisms Chester had floating about him. “I don’t like girls like that.” She shook her head lightly.

“You’re just mad because you couldn’t catch yourself in time.” He taunted, leaning in closer towards her. If she wasn’t confined to a booth, she’d scoot away out of habit.

“No, I’m rather pissed off because I just wanted to buy a guitar.” She rebutted. Pride washed through her, she liked herself when she was rude and fearless towards people-- and it supported her apathetic persona she wanted to emanate.

His lips turned into a bow, but this was all just a jeer in Maggie’s eyes. “Well, I’ve waited three weeks for you to buy that guitar darling…”

“You don’t get to call me that.” Maggie interrupted, not wanting to hear another word. Her arms dropped from her chest and tickled the leather straps of her messenger.

“Who called you that? Why is it such a big thing for you?”

“You don’t get to know.” She spoke through clenched teeth.

“What if I wanted to know?” He continued to toy with her. Maggie knew he was no good, exactly like her. Maybe they were both misfits yearning for that place to feel welcome. Maybe, just maybe, the voice inside of her compelled, maybe he’s like you. Nowadays a fake smile is often more accepted than a genuine one.

Maggie shuffled, trying to find something to focus in on so she didn’t start crying. It had been a year and a half for Christ’s sake, she should be over it, she should be functioning. Out of all the things she should be doing, she never did any of them. The garden that she promised she’d care for, those had all gone to utter shit. Not to mention the house, Maggie couldn’t force herself into the old room. That door had been closed all this time. Facing conflict was the root of her problems, or the lack of. “My mother used to call me that.”

“Oh.” That simple sound, barely considered a word, was the most eloquent reaction Chester could muster. “I never knew my mother.” He stirred the ice around in his drink casually.

“I never knew my father.” Maggie blurted out; they had some kind of relation now, a link.

But for once, it seemed as if Chester was the uncomfortable one in the situation. He was quick to change the subject. “Why are you terrified of dogs?”

“Dogs are beasts meant for killing and maiming.” Maggie cringed. The sheer thought of a dog, regardless of the size made her absolutely sick with fear. “But I also had a dog attack me in my younger years.” She grimaced, slowly beginning to lose appetite at the remembrance of the way her blood pooled onto the sidewalk. Almost as if she was there again, the sensation of warm, thick liquid vaguely mauled her in the present moment.

“Really? Did you provoke the animal?”

“No, it had rabies and attacked me; my mother installed the gate after that.” Maggie defensively stated, the edge in her voice demanding respect from the boy across from her. Not that he didn’t show respect to her, but this moment called for a delicate handling that Maggie was unsure Chester would give.

“That’s what’s wrong with you.” He sniggered. Maggie couldn’t help but let a few escape from her lips either. It was strange how such an icy conversation with the subject of traumatic events slowly underwent metamorphosis to a warm, dare she say cozy, environment over the course of a few questions. This bared similarity to the battlefield that bloomed in the most vibrant wildflowers every spring. The simple quizzical matters in the world have the most meaning.

And the two began their trivial symbolism in a café that she never heard the name of in her hometown.