There is a young woman sitting in the back of a tiny café. Her coffee is getting cold, but she’s hardly had any yet, and her papers are scattered over the surface of the table. A pen hangs loosely between two fingers like a cigarette, pointing down to the ground. Her eyes have a glazed tired look to them.

When the door to the café opens, a tiny little set of bells jingle, and the door swings closed, banging twice against the frame. Her eyes are drawn there, to that point between frame and door, where the cold air forces its way between surfaces in that second of open space. Her eyes then travel to the feet that stomp twice on the mat before walking forward. When she looks up to see a face connected to those feet, to two stomps that connected to the two bangs bringing air into the café, she meets a pair of very blue, very calm eyes. She could not tell you, at the moment, if she was looking at a young man or woman, or if the face was even an attractive one. All she saw was a sort of quiet kindness, and it was enough.

She took a deep breath, and on its exhale began to explain. You see, she said, I’ve always been a little on the outside of things. And suddenly, she woke up. She was no longer sitting limply in the chair, but speaking rapidly, excitedly. Sometimes she would giggle as she told the most embarrassing part of her day to this stranger. Sometimes she would tear up, and explain why she was so shy, why she had body image issues. But mostly she just talked, fingers tapping wildly on the table, in time with the chatter coming from her lips. The sound of her voice, the words, the meaning, found a release in those strange eyes, and instead of entering the ears connected to those eyes, the words instead were absorbed into those blue irises, coming back out through the pupils. She felt the interest, the sympathy, the amusement at her words bouncing back to her from that black center of the eye. Color came to her cheeks, flushed her full of a sweet rosy color, and her breath came in little gasps and she continued to look into those eyes, now more familiar to her than her own.

The door bounced lightly against the frame a third time before settling, and the young man gave another couple of stomps to the mat before rubbing his hands together to bring back some warmth. He stepped up to order a large coffee from the pink-haired cashier who told him, in between snaps of gum, that it would be $1.85, please. When he took the coffee he left the café, glancing behind him as he went. He didn’t see the woman sitting in the back, who had picked up her hand from its tired repose and laid it, trembling slightly, on the papers in front of her. She had a contented smile on her face when the door bounced once again against the frame, and the bells tinkled, letting out the coffee-soaked air of the room.

She had a genuine smile when someone laid a hand on her shoulder, softly speaking her name. The women kissed on both cheeks, and relaxed into a comfortable ritual.

“Really, Eden, you’ll never guess what happened to me today. Do you remember that kid—”

And the young woman, who sat quietly with her papers for a few peaceful hours, gave over to listening. She re-listened and re-heard every single instance of her friend’s life, lamenting over the stubbornness of her lovers, raging against the injustices of parents and siblings. And she nodded and chuckled, pouted when her friend expressed sorrow and squeezed her hand comfortingly. And when she opened her mouth to speak, the only words she needed to speak were mere echoes of the sentiments her friend expressed. It was growing late, the daylight slid into darkness and it got colder in the room without the sunlight warming the air, which the café kept pretty cold to lower the electric bill every month.

“So listen Eden,” her friend said, “I have to get going I have a date but you have to call me, it was so great seeing you! Give me a call we’ll hang out!”

She got up, gathering her purse and gloves. As she rose to leave, almost as an afterthought, she glanced back down at her friend, who had started to shuffle her papers back into its canvas bag. “Oh, hey, I almost forgot! How’s your brother, is he okay?”

Eden’s tongue dried up, sticking to her mouth and forming clumsy words. Her friend had turned away already when she said “He’s okay. They moved him out of ICU.”

“Oh, that’s great! See, I knew he’d be alright! Hugs and kisses!” And with that, she sailed out of the café, shutting the door firmly behind her. Eden felt strangely forlorn at the absence of its usual three-bounces and the little bells seemed to cut their song off sooner than they had all day. With a tired smile goodbye to the gum-snapping teen she walked out to the street, walking block after block of bare store windows, naked after the cheery Christmas decorations had been taken down. When her phone rang she fished around the papers for a few minutes, before picking it up and breathlessly greeting the caller on the other end.

“Ohhhh my god,” wailed a young man on the other end. “I hate everything about my life right now, I can’t even begin to tell you.”

“Well, calling’s a start, what’s up?”

“Ugh, well I was supposed to go to Steve’s party, you know the one I kind of had a thing with last semester? Anyway last night…”

Eden listened as her friend recounted his trials of the night before, walking along the dark streets. It was bitingly cold, and the hand holding her cell phone went numb. Switching hands, she continued listening. The block where the hospital loomed was coming up, and she began to think of it as a safe house against the wind, blessing its presence as her shoulders tightened and she shivered.

“Well, anyway, what are you doing tonight?” her friend asked, and when she replied, said only “Oh okay well I have to go, Iris is having a party. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Iris is having a party? Oh. “Yeah, okay,” Eden said, and closed the phone just as she reached the hospital. She opened the doors and walked through to the waiting room, where she would be told she could go see her brother. When she sat, she looked down at her hands. The knuckles were chapped, and one had split open, bleeding a little.

A nurse practitioner came into the room, struggling with a pile of manila folders before they all fanned out in chaos onto the desk in front of her. She smiled tiredly at Eden, “Just one of those days, you know?” Eden smiled back, nodded, and looked down at her knuckles. Knuckles are ugly, she thought, studying the cracks and lines, flexing her fingers and curling them. Flex and curl. Flex and curl. Flex and— then she got a text message. She replied that she didn’t have money to go shopping tonight but did her friend want to rent a movie? When she got a response an hour later, it was late and her friend was already at the outlet.

While she sat by the sleeping boy in the hospital bed, she glanced up at the door and saw an old woman in a nurse’s uniform treading down the hall. Their gazes met, and Eden’s eyes focused on the old woman. All else disappeared, and all she saw were the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, and the nice smile she had at her mouth. All of it came pouring out, her tiredness, her lack of money. She didn’t know what she was doing with her life. What should she do? Did the old woman know where she could get something to eat, it’s pretty late, there’s nothing open. The woman seemed to embrace her and the soft roundness of her old form comforted the young girl in a way that she had never been comforted before. The old lady laughed, and patted her on the head. She pursed her lips as she concentrated to the stories of this young girl sitting at the foot of a hospital bed. The knot that Eden had felt rising in her chest stopped its throbbing tangle and started to rest, then to unravel. She could breathe again. Her voice got lighter and lighter, floating up into the air of the room.

When she blinked, the woman had turned away from the door, padding down the hall to check on other residents. Time’s up, she had said. Visiting hours are over. Eden wrapped herself up again in her coat and scarf, and left the hospital, walking to a bookstore she knew of that was opened until midnight. She still had time. She sat down in a comfortable chair with a pile of books, looking more at the people around her than she did at the heap in her lap. A boy a couple of years older than her was picking up the books customers had left around the store, and he nodded to her as he brushed by. Eden looked at his back, the broad shoulders and the beginning of a tattoo that started just behind his ear and worked its way down below the collar of his shirt. It looked like some kind of animal, a bird maybe? Or a dragon. And she looked at the tattoo and traced her fingers along its edge, told his shoulders: I am haunted. I see things I shouldn’t be seeing. I hear what I don’t want to hear. Please, please let it stop. And the tattoo rippled as the boy moved and seemed to ask her what the problem was.

I see a young woman. She is stuck between a huge river and a line of people. She is tired, you see. She runs back and forth, first to the river and then to the line of people. It stretches out for miles. And they’re all holding their soiled clothing and each time she gets to the line someone throws his clothes to the woman. And she can’t let go, or give it back. She has to bring it to the river, and wash it and then and only then can she bring it back to him. She is cursed that way. Sometimes the clothes are so heavy she stumbles under the weight. Every time I close my eyes I see her, every time I go to bed I dream and there she is.

The bird/dragon rippled in sympathy and told her not to worry, that everyone has nightmares. She smiled a little, and thanked the inky sketch for its advice. He shrugged, and then was gone. Eden started as a voice came over the speakers in the store, warning customers that they had five minutes to purchase their last items. Her gaze went back to the tattoo, and she saw that the boy had gone off to another bookshelf, and he was talking to another employee. She left the store, walking out into midnight and brushed past the two.

“Hey,” one said to the man with the tattoo, “She stared at you for a really long time. Did you say anything to her?”

“No.” Said the young man. “She was really quiet. Didn’t even read.”

For a moment they didn’t say anything, but his friend pretended it was his imagination when the tattoo shifted, and the creature seemed to cock its head.