Rendezvous

BY JULIE CHEN

I have big dreams, he whispers, quietly

Mixing the whipped cream into his frappe. I nod,

Lightheaded from breathing in the sugared

Scent of a bush of hyacinths nearby. Spring was

In full bloom and flowers mustered in every

Corner. The air hung heavy with redolence.

He coughs and I tried to regain focus. My mother

Never even tried to understand me. The last 

Time I went home, she’d replaced my bed

With a pool table. If only I was as tame as

A billiard ball, he mumbles. I look down and

notice a ladybug lounging on my toe. I shift my feet

and it jolts away, speckled wings all in a fluster.

A drop of rain lands in my coffee. You’re better

Off now anyways, I say. You’ve been smiling

A lot more lately. He looks at me and his

Eyes are glazed with dejection. I give him

A nudge as the waiter steps outside to announce

Impending rain. The girl at the next table

Squeals and rushes to finish her meringue.

At least you’re welcome here. I drain my

Cup and stand up. He pushes back his dreadlocks

And gathers up our empty sugar packets. As he

Walks to throw them away, I wonder what

It feels like to be replaced with cue sticks

And a pocket table.

The clouds crack open above and I sprint

For the door leading back into the café.

We wait for the storm to subside. He unfolds a

Withered map and I watch him trace his slender fingers

Down miles and miles of dirt roads and turnpikes.