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A Second Chance

It is Friday 7:55 AM.

Alice’s head rests on the counter.

She is sleeping.

I am awake.

Really awake.

For the first time in a long while.

I have a purpose again.

I started coming back to life the first time I saw Alice.

It was only a working week ago, but it feels like a lifetime.

It is Monday 7:30 AM.

I sit at the small cafe at the corner of my block, drinking my coffee. I have a fresh newspaper at my side. I like to have a fresh newspaper with me everywhere I go. Just for the look of it. I like to position the newspaper nicely in a forty-five degree angle next to my black coffee. I casually place my thick, framed glasses on top of it, as if I just paused reading for a moment. I browse through the front page from the corner of the eye.

Then I read the news on my phone.

I hate to bother with the large paper and people starring at me every time I make this rustling noise while turning a page.

That day, like every day, I sit at the counter facing the street. I like to watch the people that pass by and I like to make up stories about their lives. I sit on my stool and I imagine where they are coming from and where they are heading to. This morning I already made up three stories. Which is a good number, given that I sat down on my stool only twelve minutes and thirty-five seconds ago. Thirty-six, to be precise. I feel especially creative today.

And then Alice passes by.

And something about her lights up a spark in my cold heart that died a long time ago.

Alice has blue hair and olive skin, she is wearing bright pink lipstick and her eyes are circled with a thick, dark line. I imagine she uses a piece of charcoal instead of eyeliner, then screams a primal scream at her reflection in the mirror. Observing her warpaint. Ready to rule the streets.

Of course I didn’t know then that Alice has a sweet soul. She is wearing her street-face, tough and slightly aggressive.

I loosen my tie, just a hair, as I gulp, holding my breath. Then I whisk off some imaginary lint of my brown suit. I can’t stop staring at her. Alice kicks her green leather skirt up in the air with every energetic step she takes. Her fishnet stockings are full of holes and I imagine the squeaky sound her patent leather boots make as they rub along her bare skin. She has thrown a furry jacket over her shoulder, carrying it hooked on to her index and middle finger. The top she is wearing might have been white once. Now it is stained and rather grey.

It now has been thirteen minutes sharp since I sat down on my stool, in my café at the corner of my block and Alice is gone.

She just passed by like every other person that I made up a story about. Every other person that has passed by while I was sitting here this morning and every other morning of the last five years.

Disheartened, and with a feeling of loss, I empty my cup of coffee, grab my newspaper, put on my glasses and leave my café.

It is 7:50 AM, I enter the street, turn left and walk twenty-five steps to the stop where my bus immediately arrives, like every morning, and it takes me straight to my office.

It is Tuesday 7:30 AM.

I sit on my stool, at my café, drinking my coffee. I have a fresh newspaper.

It has been only five minutes since I started observing the passersby. Behind a bulky man, I catch a glimpse of patent leather boots. And as the man walks on faster, I see her. Alice. Her walk has none of the energy I saw yesterday but her eyes still look fierce. She stops as the furry jacket slips from her finger. Her whole body sighs as she comes to a stop and slowly bends down to pick up the jacket from the pavement. She seems tired. The dark circles under her eyes don’t look like charcoal today.

Alice takes several minutes to pick herself up and, as she rises, she turns her head and looks at me.

Of course she doesn’t look at me, she looks at the café, I remind myself.

Alice walks towards the door and enters the cafe. I am startled and I am already standing. Sitting back down would be weird. I feel people staring at me. I don’t like when people stare at me. I quickly empty my coffee, I grab my glasses, I forget my newspaper. Alice is sitting at the bar. She orders coffee. Black. Like me.

It is 7:40 AM. I leave the café and turn left. I walk twenty-five steps to the stop and my bus, unlike every morning, does not immediately arrive. I don’t like to wait for the bus.

It is Wednesday 7:30 AM.

Alice sits on my stool drinking her coffee. She is reading my old newspaper. The pages are spread all over the counter. With loud rustling, she moves through them.

I choose a spot on the far end on the other side of the counter. I have my fresh newspaper nicely positioned in a forty-five degree angle. I have my coffee and my glasses. But it feels wrong. I don’t like this new spot. I cannot see the people on the street well and I am afraid to stare at Alice. Instead I stare at my phone and pretend to read the news. I count down in my head the appropriate time that has to pass until I can look at her again without being caught staring.

Three, two, one — as I look up Alice stands right in front of me.

“Excuse me. Are you done with that?”

Now I do stare. She stares back. I don’t say anything. It seems like she took my words, just like she took my stool and I don’t remember the last time I spoke.

“Hello? Are you alright?”

I clear my throat and try to focus to get out a full sentence

“I, me — What?”

“The paper?”

She points at my neatly positioned newspaper.

“Are you done with that? I already went through all of this one twice.”

She points at the mess next to my old spot.

“Yesterday’s news, you know?”

She chuckles and, as I don’t reply, she continues.

“Anyway, I couldn’t stop noticing that you haven’t touched yours. So are you done? Can I borrow it?”

I don’t like to give up my paper. I carry a fresh newspaper every day. But I dislike to be rude even more so I slowly push it over towards Alice. Then I slightly lower my chin, trying to imitate a somewhat encouraging nod.

Her eyes light up and her pink lipstick stretches into a broad smile.

“Thank you!”

I hold her gaze as she looks me in the eyes. Then I try another nod and she floats back to her stool, to my stool, rustling, while she unfolds the paper.

My coffee is cold. I have no newspaper.

It is 7:55 AM as I leave the café and turn left. I walk twenty-five steps to the stop and my bus is gone.

I am never late at the office. I don’t like being late.

It is Thursday 6:55 AM.

I arrive early to secure my spot. The café has not opened yet. I can see the waiter through the glass of the door. He prepares the percolator, takes mugs out of the dishwasher, wipes some left over crumbs off the bar and then finally takes a big bundle of keys out of his pocket and walks towards the door to let me in.

“Early bird today, huh? Come on in!”

He waves me through. I nod and try to say something about not being able to sleep. I order my coffee, black, and I sit down at my stool. Finally. I sigh with relief.

I came prepared today. I brought two newspapers. Just in case.

It is 7:30 AM. Alice hasn’t arrived yet. I tried to make up stories about the passersby but my creativity is just not flowing today.

Where is Alice?

It is 7:50 AM, I leave the café. I bump into Alice as I exit and she enters through the door at the same time. “Sorry!” she laughs and holds the door for me. I feel my face turning red. Out of reflex I point the second newspaper, her newspaper, at Alice, pushing her to accept it.

“I remembered.”

Is all I can say. Embarrassing. I had planned all morning to give her the paper. I had some smart words prepared and I had imagined myself casually turning around on my stool, handing it over. Instead I gave my usual awkward performance.

Her smile widened.

“Thank you!”

Our gazes link.

“I’m Alice.”

She holds out her uncreased but bruised hand to shake my wrinkled but

healthy one.

From the corner of the eye I see my bus approaching. I turn left. I run twenty-five steps and the bus and I arrive at the same time. Out of breath, gasping for air. Me — not the bus.

I like the name Alice. It is short and to the point. Just like hers was.

It is Friday 7:30 AM.

I take a chance and arrive at my standard time again. Being early last morning completely screwed up my whole routine.

My stool is still free. I order coffee. I sit down and position my newspaper and glasses. I position Alice’s paper in a forty-five degree angle in front of the stool next to me.

She arrives at 7:35 AM.

She still wears the same clothes I first saw her wear on Monday. I still wear a brown suit and a tie. But a fresh suit. Every day.

Alice climbs on to the stool next to me. She smiles slightly.

“Hi.”

She whispers.

“Hello Alice.”

Her name rolling off my tongue feels so familiar. I feel like I stepped into a time machine that took me back to happier times. I feel like I’ve got a second chance. To do things right this time.

“Thank you for the news.”

She yawns as she opens the paper and then forms it into a big ball. She rests her head on the paper-pillow and looks at me.

“I’ll read it later.”

Alice smiles.

She is exhausted again this morning. Her young face looks too old underneath the makeup.

“Are you alright?”

I worry.

“Just — so — tired.”

She sighs

“I’ve — been working — all night.”

I know this kind of tiredness.

I noticed the signs all week.

I noticed the energy and the exhaustion.

I noticed the top of an syringe pointing out of the furry jacket on the floor and I notice the familiar marks in the crook of her arm now.

I’ve seen them way too many times.

I look at my watch.

It is 7:50.

I don’t want to leave Alice.

And surprised about myself, I stay.

I never missed a day of work before.

Not even when she needed me the most.

Today I let my bus go.

It sounds like a small thing but this routine was all that kept me alive in the last five years.

“My daughter would be around your age now.” I look at Alice “Don’t throw your life away because you are disappointed in others.”

She smiles a sad smile as she drifts off.

It is not too late for her.

It is not too late for me to get a second chance.

Alice’s head rests on the counter.

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