Once, I Wrote a Story for No One to Read

This was meant to be a reflective journey of myself - on my younger days. This was never meant to be a story, but somehow my brain and heart and fingers made it so.

Once, I wrote a story for no one to read.

The story was about a boy who woke up on his birth-day. He woke up without anyone in his home - he couldn't find his father, mother and his only sister. Alone, he decided to leave the house to celebrate his own birthday. He walked to nearby cafe where he frequently visited with his sister not too far from their home. It was still too early for someone to go to a cafe, but it was his birthday and it was Sunday. He got nothing to do, he done all of his homework on Friday night. He got nothing to do except spending the day on his birthday.

The cafe was small, but the inside was cozy and the boy find it like his second home. There were only five tables and ten chairs in total. The wall painted white and also does the furnitures. He knew that one of several person who served there - the one who behind the counter - was a professional. She crafted a delicious coffee he ever drank, cooked the delicious food he ever ate. Her taste on music also matched with this boy's taste. Whenever she's in charge doing the shift, she always played a playlist of jazz. From Monk to Coltrane and sometimes Chet Baker and some unknown musician or band that the boy never heard or acknowledge before.

The boy always ordered the same menu every time he visit : a cup of cappuccino and later near the noon, a plate of steamed riced with sauté sausage drizzled with black pepper sauce. No matter who stood behind the counter, no matter if he came alone or with his sister or with his entire family, he always ordered the same menu. He thought it was not about he scared to try another menu or the fear of dissatisfaction but rather as a task of consistency.

The boy entered the cafe, and walked to the counter. The female barista was there, "But Not For Me" by Chet Baker played on the loudspeakers, the room was filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, sun lights shone gently passing the large glass on the window panes, a man was sitting on the further back seats reading book. He ordered his usual, produced a handful of money that he saved from a month back from his wallet that he slipped on his back pocket.

"Where's N?" she asked about the sister whereabout. He said he don't know and she just accepting his answer by nodding and handing his changes. The boy took the seat near the large glass window not too far from the counter. He always sat there whether he was alone or along with his sister. The sun feed him with vitamin D and he enjoyed it.

The boy wonder, how come there's no one at home. Where does every body go? Why everyone left him alone at home? On his birthday? No texts, no letters found on the dinner table. He was left alone in a house that soon he will leave. Does everybody no longer loved me?

The coffee came with dancing, slim, steams. The aroma was so strong, the boy almost flinched his head. "The beans are brand new, you are the second person who taste it here." said the barista as she put down the cup gently. He can see clearly she had a tattoo on her neck - a swan with spreading wings. "The owner said the beans came from the East, not sure which East it was. I even haven't tried it." The boy asked her why, she said she had problems with coffee and something acidic. "My stomach would crying for help while I already lumping lifeless on the floor."

The boy was left alone with his steaming hot cappuccino. She letting him wander his minds to whatever he wants to. And so the boy did. The boy sat while resting both of his hands on the table, folded neatly, like a kid at a school, waiting and behave. His minds wanders.

He thought about his birthday.

He thought about his future.

He thought about his family.

He thought about the uncertainties.

As he try to reach his cup of cappuccino, the glass already cold. Heats no longer radiate from it.

Shocked, the boy snapped back to his own self. Does he stared at the windows for that long? He believed it was just a minute or two. He try to lift the coffee cup that already cold. It would be a waste cup of coffee if I didn't drank it down he thought. He lift the cup like lifting a feather - effortless. The cup already emptied. When did he drank it?

He looked up around, expecting finding someone to ask about this weirdness he experienced. He knew that he could asked the barista - or if she was busy, maybe the man on the far seat saw something that he missed.

The cafe was no longer there. 

Nor the barista with swan tattoo, nor the man with his book.

He saw a tv screen, a bookshelf, a small lamp, a cabinet, two closed doors, kitchen counters, emptied plastic bottles scattered on the floor, piles of dirty laundries, an ashtray filled with cigarette butts. Fainted sound of trains and car machines came from the outside, the balcony door slide opened, dead dried plants filled half of it, a pale large yellow moon shone bright.

The boy sat alone in his apartment.

The cup of coffee was no longer hot. The stains already dried and making such wavy pattern on the white oblong mug. A slice of cake stood steadily in front of him - untouched. The room smells like a mist of heavy burden - mistakes, regrets, sins.

That was his twenty ninth birthday.

The moon shine bright, spotlighting him on his one-man show stage play of life.