A little after noon, he returned to the counter. His cup was empty, and he had nothing in his hand. I spoke first.
“Would you like a refill?”
He shook his head. Instead, he pointed to the holder. It seemed the label he'd just written caught his eye.
“Is it sunny today?”
I looked out the window. The sky was high and the clouds were thin. Light streamed through the glass, stretching out.
“Yes. It’s clear.”
Strangely, that short answer felt like it was on my side. He looked at the text on the label again, nodded, and then added in a very small voice.
“Then, that’s okay.”
The words "it's okay" didn't fit the mood. But I didn't ask why. It was less emotionally swaying. Still, a faint curiosity blossomed. Thin enough to be denied. Fortunately.
He didn't stay there any longer. He walked toward the door, stopped, and looked back. Our eyes met briefly, then quickly parted. The doorbell rang, and the air shifted. I returned to my seat, putting away my empty cup. The empty window seemed wider for a moment. The sunlight filtered in a little more, then quickly disappeared.
/
The rest of the afternoon passed as usual. Deliveries arrived, receipts piled up, and ice buckets were filled. My hands were busy, but my mind was calm. On days when busyness overwhelms my mind, I'm less agitated.
That's why I loved my work. It always put me in the background, a space behind me. Background doesn't get hurt. Only being in the forefront hurts. And... I knew that.
/
It was time to leave work, and before I put my bag away, I opened the drawer. There was the envelope I'd put there that morning. I took it out and sniffed it briefly.
The scent of cologne was strong, but not heavy. The smell of memory is usually heavy. This was a little different. I didn't put the envelope back in. I kept it in my bag, still holding it in my hand. The closing sound was quieter than before. Silence could mean there was a gap. I refused to believe it. Still, I felt a slight inclination toward believing it.
I took the envelope out on the bus home. The time passed by, and the streetlights flickered on, one by one. I didn't open the envelope for a while. I ran my fingers along the edges. The paper felt softer than I'd expected. Every time the bus stopped, my heart paused. Every time it started, it moved forward just a little. I couldn't see the movement, but I could feel it clearly in my fingertips.
Arriving home, I took off my shoes, turned on the light, and drank a glass of water. I opened the drawer and moved other things around. I made a space. I put the envelope in the space, took it out, put it back in, took it out again. I laughed. It was stupid. But everyone does stupid things. I just hope some stupid things end without injury. I put the envelope on the desk and took a shower. The sound of water trickled down the wall. The hot water paused my thoughts for a moment. I wrote, knowing it would only last a moment.
After showering, I dried my hair and looked out the window. My reflection felt a little unfamiliar. My cheeks flushed slightly. Maybe it was the warm air, or maybe it was the smell of chocolate. I sat down on the chair and opened the bag. I carefully pulled out half and sniffed it. It smelled like something would burst if I chewed it. I didn't bite. Instead, I took out a piece of plastic wrap and wrapped half of it. I put the other half back in the bag. Just then, my phone rang. It was a short message from a colleague.
— The label was cute today. It was sunny :).
I moved my thumb.
— It was a bit like that today.
I paused for a moment and wrote one more line.
— I guess it's okay sometimes.
After sending it, the air felt lighter. I looked at the brownie again. It still smelled sweet. A small piece can transport someone to the past or bind them to the present. Which will happen tomorrow morning?
I sat down at my desk and carefully opened the envelope. I took out a small brownie and cut it in half. The sweet aroma intensified on the cross-section. I took a bite. The soft texture slowly unraveled in my mouth. The moment I swallowed it, I felt a door that had been closed for a long time opening just a little.
It was sweet, but there was a strange bitterness mixed in. Even though I knew the bitterness came from the past, I didn't spit it out this time. I slowly chewed the remaining piece.
Instead of putting the empty envelope in the drawer, I placed it on the table. Then, leaning back in my chair, I took a deep breath and thought, "Maybe it'll be okay, at least for a little while."