Run Away Baby

“Going out for a coffee,” I whispered to my sleeping husband.

There is a clarity that comes with being here, being anywhere north actually, something in the air that descrambles what Savannah does to my brain, and I need to get some of it. In a moment, I am on Alexa’s old bicycle, coasting downtown. Being here makes me feel young again, and free of all the layers that pile up over time and make us all so grubby. When I am in Savannah, I feel completely connected to Adrian and would never dream of leaving him. My lack of friends or roots there makes me cling to him. But here, I am stronger, more independent. Sometimes I feel like he and I have no connection whatsoever. And I like it. It’s like one less layer to weigh me down.

I know I am really just enjoying the freedom to pretend I am not satisfied. One part luxury, one part affliction, reserved exclusively for spoiled wives. I suppose you could call it the burden of having everything; Instead of worrying about paying rent and finding love and being fat, I daydream about being free.

I arrived at the coffee shop, locked the bike to a bench outside it, and went inside. Even though it was only eight o’clock in the morning, it was crowded. People were sitting around with their laptops, connected to something far removed and unknown. For a fleeting instant I felt jealous, until I remembered that it was most likely work they were connecting to. Yuck. “No woman of mine will ever have to work,” Adrian told some friends at a party once while he was drinking. (Normally he’s very refined, but people can be completely different when they’re intoxicated.) I pretended to be horrified at his tackiness, but in reality it’s no more embarrassing than my three-carat diamond ring.

I turned away from the people with their computers and caught my reflection in the mirror next to a coffee mug display. It reminded me to pull back my messy hair into a ponytail.

“What can I get you?” asked the boy behind the counter. He was probably about nineteen. He smiled, ignoring a woman in her fifties with a briefcase who looked like she was ready to order.

“Do you have any fair trade coffee?” I asked him.

“It’s all fair trade.”

“I’ll take the Kona blend,” I said after studying the list of flavors for a moment. I pretended not to notice the frantic tapping of the businesswoman’s heel on the floor or her irritated, exaggerated sigh.

“The Kona blend is our best seller,” he told me.

“Wait,” I said after he filled the cup, “I think I want the Arabian Mocha Java instead.”

“No problem. That’s my personal favorite, by the way.” He poured the first cup down the drain and got a new paper cup for me. He took care, nestling it in a cardboard java jacket, whistling a little ditty as he did so. At this point the tapping woman said, “Unbelievable,” and left.

I know, I know, that will be me someday. Old and having to work and not even able to buy a cup of coffee. I can see it coming like a big gray storm rolling in, even if no one else would ever suspect such a thing for me. That storm has been there since the day I got married, heavy and watchful on the horizon, perhaps waiting for me to lower the checkered flag, but willing to plow over me if I should forget to do so. It lingers and I live here in the sunshine just outside of the shadow it casts. So that is why I am taking advantage of the here and now.

The boy passed my drink to me kind of slyly, and said nothing of the total. I set a five-dollar bill on the counter and he pressed it back into my hand. His hand was hot and sweaty, very nineteen. Nothing at all like Adrian’s dry, smooth man hands.

“It’s on me,” he said.

It’s a good thing I didn’t have this thing, this aura or skill or whatever it is, ten years ago, because I wouldn’t have known what to do with it. I would have abused this kind of power. The way all the girls around me used to do, as if it was the God-given right of college girls.

I took a sip of the coffee and smiled. It was very, very strong.

“Like it?” he asked.

“I do.”

His eyes were sweet and desperate. His neck was stubbly and I could just tell he would smell a little bit sweaty if I got a couple of inches closer. I breathed in deeply, trying to catch a bit of him, but only smelling coffee.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” he asked.

I nodded, but I wasn’t going to stick around. After all, I am a married woman.

I pedaled around, carefully sipping. If I spilled on myself I would become annoyed and the fun would be over. Girls in their early twenties, healthy looking and pretty like a J. Crew catalog come-to-life, were out and about, toting messenger bags and cute boyfriends. They had made the decision early on to be the sun, and not a planet or a moon or a strip mall on a planet.

They couldn’t see that I finally learned their secret language, so to them, I was nothing. Not a member of their team, of their sorority. No threat at all. Invisible.

How many free cups of coffee have you gotten lately, I wondered about the girl with the pale yellow hair nearly down to her waist. She was on her phone laughing, throwing her head back like a flip top cap on some whitening toothpaste. “Flip top,” I said as I pedaled past her. She looked up at me and glared.

“Is it really that funny or are you just trying to look happy?” I whispered. I was too far away for her to hear me. People are drawn to happy people. I could remember being at parties when I was younger and fake laughing with my friends over nothing at all. Not hysterically. Not like a hyena. Just like a happy girl. It always brought the boys over. That and making out with each other.

Back to flip top. She was walking down the street now. Still talking, still laughing. She probably doesn’t even know they charge for coffee.

Stop being jealous, I told myself. Those girls will be lucky to be where I am in ten years. I doubt any of them will live like this.