Chapter Text
He wasn’t sure when he started seeing her around. Last week? Longer? It had to have been recently, but for the life of him it just seemed like she’d been coming to his coffee stand in the lobby of this office tower every day in recent memory. It was actually getting harder and harder to imagine a day when she didn’t come by.
“Hey,” she said with a quick wave of her hand. “How ya doing? I’m good. I’ll have the usual,”
Of course. Ana always got the same thing every day, at the same time. Like clockwork. Flat white, one cream. It was such a regular order that he could probably make it up just ahead of time and have it ready for her.
He slid the drink across the counter. “Hey Ana. I’m good. Not too busy today. I’m sure you noticed the lack of a line.”
She smiled and picked up her drink. “Be seeing you, Sim.”
Simon smiled as she walked away. It felt good to hear that coming from her - the first time she’d used his name. Usually it was buddy or pal. A little weird, too. Customers didn’t normally say his name. It was a transaction, not a conversation. They’d just take their drink and head back upstairs. But I guess that’s why we wear name tags, he thought as he wiped the countertop with a wet rag. That and so security knows who is coming and going.
He turned around and started polishing the sleek chrome finish of the espresso maker. A proper beast of a machine: weighed more than him and cost more than a car - not that he could afford having both. He wiped until he could see his reflection: those lines under his eyes, the hair getting a little long and unkept. And the distinct lack of a name tag.
***
Simon lived a quiet, boring life. He lived by himself in the third floor of a walkup just off one the streetcar routes. His job was his life: he owned that little stand and was there five days a week, 6am to 6pm. He brewed a fresh pot every 20 minutes and made espresso to order. When he wasn’t at work he was likely at home, browsing trade magazines and looking online for new ideas, cheap equipment, an opportunity to get a little bigger than just a stand. But then again the early starts wore on him too: he was tired on his days off and spent most of them catching up on sleep. All in all, it was a quiet life, but it was his. Simon liked that. He didn’t feel like he owed anyone anything - except maybe a few loans, anyway.
Still it’d been a while since he did anything besides rot in his apartment. In idle moments between customers he wondered if he was wasting his life, if he was looking for something more than just being a guy who made a lot of coffee. When he looked in the mirror he didn’t like what looked back at him: a tired, quickly aging man. But when those feelings got too strong he just blunted them off: a hit off his weed pen, a few hands of online poker, and before long he was numb again. He liked to be numb. He liked not thinking. Thinking led to questions and questions led to problems.
***
Monday meant Simon was back at it and being back at it meant he was busy: pouring coffee, brewing coffee, steaming coffee. Seemed like every time he looked up another customer was in line. But it took him by surprise when Ana was standing there. She was early.
“Staring at me, Sim? That’s unbecoming of a gentleman,” she said with a smile. “What’s up? Jealous of something?”
Simon stammered and leaned back on his fridge. “No, no, no. It’s nothing.”
“What’s up, Sim? You seem a little flustered,” she said.
He grinned. “It’s been a day.”
Ana angled her head, letting her long bob hang askew. “You don’t worry you’re burning yourself out?”
“The only thing I worry about burning here is my hands.” He slid her coffee over.
“You seem like you’ve got something on your mind,” said Ana. “Look, come by my office upstairs after lunch. Missing an afternoon won’t kill you. Do something for yourself.”
Simon shook his head. “Nah, I got things that need doing.”
Ana reached into her purse and pulled out a business card and a pen. She set it on the counter and scribbled some numbers on it, then slid it over to him.
“This is my card and that’s –” she pointed to the number she’d written in pen “-- that’s my personal line. I’m here five days a week, same as you. Come up and talk one afternoon. I think you’ll like what I have to say.”
Simon looked at the card, then back at Ana. “What’s wrong? You think I’ll bite?” She winked at him.
Simon took the card and slid it into his pocket. He ducked under the counter to grab his cleaning rag. “Oh, by the way,” he started, “how did you learn my name?” But when he popped back up the lobby was empty.
***
Simon’s afternoon was a drag. It went by slowly with less customers than usual. As he stood inside his stand he felt like he was pacing inside a cage, testing his limits but unable to get past the bars. People walked by on their way to work, to their houses, to somewhere. Simon leaned back against his stall, idly polishing the spigots of the espresso maker, and watched them go.
When was the last time I took a vacation, he thought. He couldn’t remember. When was the last time I did something for me?
He checked his phone. It was 2:30pm and the end-of-day rush was still hours away. Not that it was much of a rush for him - it just meant the lobby was packed. He kept wiping: the countertop, the door to the fridge under the espresso machine, the taps of the wash sink. He checked the phone again: only ten minutes had passed. He sighed and put the closed sign up on the counter before he started to tidy up. He pulled Ana’s card out again, flipping it around in his fingers, thinking about it.
***
The next few days passed by in a blur for Simon. Friday came and went with him feeling like he was on autopilot. He was up before the sunrise, hung around his stand until dinnertime, went home and hit the pen while he laid in his bed. He kept replaying his last conversation with Ana: her offer to help him relax. It didn’t really make sense to him: why would a complete stranger offer to help? What did she have to gain from it?
Maybe she’s just a nice person, he thought as he leaned back into his pillow. Maybe she just wants a new customer. That he could understand: he’d given out a free drink or two over the years. Still something bothered him about her. How did she know my name? And what exactly does she do?
***
Sunday evening, Simon was sitting down in his armchair and looking at his phone. He holds Ana’s card in one hand, his vape in the other, and the phone is in his lap. He takes a hit off the pen, sits it down and picks up the phone. No time like the present, he thinks. He dials the number and puts it on the speaker.
“Sim! I’m surprised you called so soon.”
“Hi Ana. I was thinking about what you said the other morning.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I can’t remember the last time I did something for myself. Wait. Does getting high count?”
Ana laughed. “No, that most definitely does not count, Sim.”
Simon chuckled back. “Then I don’t remember.”
There was a pause and Simon could hear some typing over the phone. “I have an opening tomorrow at four, did you want to come up then?”
Simon scanned the closed coffee stall and the empty lobby. “Yeah,” he said, “I think I can squeeze it in.”
“Perfect!” said Ana over more typing sounds. “I’ll see you then.”
***
On Monday morning Simon sleeps in. Not sleeps in for him - which on a bad day is 5am - but sleeps in. Eight in the morning hits and he’s still in bed. He rolls over, looks at his phone and presses a few buttons. L7 starts to play and leans back to listen about waking up and smelling coffee: something he won’t be doing today until he decides to make his own.
In the afternoon he rolls out of his apartment in a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and his messenger bag. He catches a bus, then a subway, and slowly drifts to his coffee stand. When it gets there the stand is still there, like he left it on Friday, and to his surprise there aren’t any angry people waiting for him. Life just kept moving on in his absence. Maybe there was something to her, he thinks. It didn’t kill him to miss just one day.
At ten to four Simon starts walking towards the elevators. He feels weird leaving the stand so early in the day. Like I’m playing hooky, he thinks. He glances down at the card Ana left him again: it simply reads Ana Mendez, Office 17C. A ding from the elevator snaps him back to reality and he walks through the open doors, presses the button for the 17th floor, and leans back against the elevator wall, wondering what exactly it means to do something for yourself.
Before he knows it he’s 17 stories in the air and walking down a nondescript office hall. Each of the doors here have a name plate beside them, usually something like a name and the title of their business. Ana’s however just has her name. He walks up, raps on the door and waits a beat before opening it.
It’s a waiting room and a small one at that. But it’s tastefully decorated: black leather armchairs with gunmetal frames, a glass coffee table with some magazines, and a TV playing a video of a nice beach somewhere. Probably not Toronto, thinks Simon. Not in those outfits.
Ana comes out of a door from the opposite side of the room and claps her hands. “Sim! You made it!” She grins and Simon gets a good look at her: She’s wearing oversized round glasses, a pair of overalls and a light red cardigan. “Well, time’s a-wasting. Ready to begin?” She walks back though the door with Simon in tow.
She leads him into a small, dimly lit room. There’s a big padded table in the middle with a hole at one end and along the walls are cabinets, salt lamps, and a table with a desktop computer. “I take it you’re not a day trader,” says Simon.
“I’m a masseuse, Sim. And the best damn one in this building, too. Hop up,” she says as she pats the table. “I won’t bite.” Simon gets up on the table with his legs dangling off one end. “Oh, you’ll have to take that off before we get started,” says Ana.
Simon reaches to his belt and gets a gentle smack from Ana. “No, not that you goober. Your shirt.” Simon chuckles to himself, pulls his shirt off over his head, and hands it to her. She puts it on the table next to the computer.
“I just lay down, right?” asks Simon.
“Spoken like a true professional.”
Simon lays down, his feet hanging off one end and his face in the hole at the other. “Would you believe this is my first massage,” he says.
Ana probes his back with her index finger and smiles. “The way you’re all tensed up, yeah. I can believe it.” She goes over to the table, grabs a small bottle, and pours it on Simon’s back. He yelps and flinches.
“Cold!”
“Oh yea, sorry. That’s just oil. It’s to help with the massage.”
“Can you let me know what you’re doing next time before you do it?” asks Simon.
Ana smiles. “Sure thing, Sim. Next I’m going to do something called Petrissage. It’ll feel like I’m kneading dough on your back, but with your muscles. Okay?”
Ana’s hands spread along Simon’s back, moving across it with slow, deliberate movements. She rubs, agitates, and gently taps along his spine, moving her hands to the sides of his body. Simon doesn’t speak, just occasionally moans and sighs in relief. Ana keeps going, her hands pressing harder, her kneading getting firmer as she works into the knots in his muscle.
“Oh that’s the stuff,” says Simon. “A guy could fall asleep with this happening to him.”
“If you want to doze,” says Ana, “that’s perfectly okay. Just close your eyes and relax, okay?” Simon stretches his legs out and falls slack as he closes his eyes and falls into relaxation. Ana keeps kneading and massaging his back as Simon drifts away. When she hears him snore she stops and walks over to her desk. She opens a drawer and takes out a small rod with a pointed tip. She rolls it around in her palms as she chants quietly under her breath. After a moment the tip starts to glow a dull red.
She walks back to Simon and starts drawing with the rod on his back. First a circle, then a geometric pattern inside it. She chants again and the pattern starts to glow. She takes a step forward and leans her head over the sigil, like she’s listening for something.
“Interesting,” she says under her breath. “I mean I had a gut feeling, but from him? Very interesting…”
She walks back to the desk, puts the rod away inside a drawer, and resumes her massage, rubbing out the sigil, and working away Simon’s months of small business stress.