Page 46 of Sorry, We're Closed

Twenty-One

Sawyer

The silence which Mother has left me in continues throughout the night, and I know this since I don't, can't sleep. Whenever my eyes cry out to close themselves and to drift my mind away from this nightmare of a reality, I can't see the darkness which my eyelids would bring over, instead I see him.

I see Avory from over the counter, from lying on his chest, from sitting on the same amp. I try to run away from these visions of Avory, but the faint feeling of his chest against my back, his hand in mine, his soft and gentle lips on mine continue their haunting instead. They always say that once you are told that you can't have something, then it's the only thing you'll ever want. No matter how much my mind aches for him, and it clearly won't let me forget him easily, I can't have him in my life anymore. She put me in my place, she reminds me of where I belong and of my purpose, and I need to prove that to her. I need to prove that I can be a good son,herson, because I'm not willingto lose both of my parents. Not for the same reason.

I did exactly as she declared. I leave the house at seven and I arrive at work to prepare for the day ahead. The numbing effect of not sleeping is beginning to kick in as I struggle to retain anything I read or do, and this becomes clear when I attempt to fill the coffee grinder for a second time, coffee beans now clattering across the counter and bouncing onto the tiled floor.

Twenty minutes of cleaning up the ruined beans later, and it’s apparent to me that today is going to be so much harder than I thought. Not only are my thoughts on a thirty second delay at least, but any thoughts that are present and at the forefront of my mind are plagued by Bright Lights’ goddamn guitarist. Of course, I know everyone in this town, but not a single one of them is a producer or an agent or someone who can sign them up and get them out of this town. I just need to convince myself that that is exactly what I want, and it'll be okay. These lingering thoughts will disappear, I will finally get some sleep, and I guess I'll finally get my mother to be able to look me in the eye. Probably not.

The clock drags its two hands around continuously, slowly tormenting my brain with how much longer I will have to last until my head can hit my pillow once more, until those pointed ends read five and I lock the front door. That is the fastest my feet have carried me today, because allowing myself to think that my eyes are currently suffering from a drought is completely wrong. The day is over. Avory never visited. Maybe my message actually settled into his brain, and he is actually gone and now getting coffee from some instant coffee users further down the high street.

Good.

The tears dripping from my chin and the Rudolph like nose that develops from my constant wiping and sniffling says otherwise. I can't be doing this. I need a distraction. I sip my cold coffee with its syrupy clumps, gagging as they slither down my throat and I begin to clear the tables.

A family of four had dashed through the café in the last hour of service and the vast number of sticky handprints and spilt drinks make it obvious that they had two young children with them. I exhale through rounded lips before dragging my feet to my cleaning caddy and arming myself with my signature citrus cleaner and orange rags. As I soak each table in cleaner, the overwhelming citrus scent coating my nostrils and the roof of my mouth which causes an irritating cough to occur, a patterned knocking ripples throughout the café. Some late visitors, probably.

Without looking up, my voice cracks around the café. “Sorry, we're closed. Come back tomorrow!”

I wipe my stained rag over the table, applying pressure and extra vigour in my motions to the syrupy fingerprints. Another layer of cleaner is required because of those little gremlins. Around I go again, layering each table in the cleaner and now I'm sneezing repeatedly as I pass each one. Rag in hand, I begin wiping before the knocking begins again. I roll my eyes as I drop my rag and spray bottle on the nearest table and slide my way to the front door through the shuffled about furniture.

I shout out as I begin to unlock the front door, “I'm sorry, but we're closed! Please come back tomorrow!”

I peer out of the open front door to an empty street except for a few later leavers from their office jobs. No one who looks like they've just left the front door, though. I sigh at my own anger which should never be directed at a customer and lock the front door up once again. I return the keys to my pocket as the knocking continues, and it's only when I stand by the front door, that I realise I'm shouting at the completely wrong door. It's probably Gwen and Xander with a delivery that I forgot about and I'm just getting worked up for nothing.

I project my grunt into the café as I storm through the staff door and to the fire exit, using my strength to push the thick, metal door open. “Hey guys, I'm sorry for the hold up! I forgot about—”

“Hey, you.”

My hands grip so hard to the silver bar of the fire exit that I fully expect my hands to break through and snap it off into a million pieces.

You aren't meant to be here, yet I'm so thankful that you are. I want to throw myself into your arms and for you to run your hands through my hair like you once did. Yet, your voice freezes my entire being into staring at your thick jet boots and nothing else. I'm already breaking, and your eyes are the thing that will finish me off. I will dive right back into everything about you, and I will happily drown in you, but I can't. I can't, I can't, I can't.

My eyes refuse to leave his boots as a quivering voice exits my lips. “Avory, you can't be here.”

“Ah, how do you know it's me if you won't look at me?”

Because your voice is instantly recognisable. The familiar feeling of warming relief washes over me whenever you speak, because you provide a comfort and calmness that my chest and heart have never felt since my family was ripped apart by my actions. Crap. You really can't be here.

“Sawyer, I'm not losing you over a text. Can we please speak about this? And before you say anything, I'll help you clean down and get you out of here by…”

“Five thirty-nine. It takes me twenty-one minutes to get home.”

“Five thirty-nine, it is. May I?”

His fingers trace over the back of my hands as he takes the door out of my grip and strolls in. My hand doesn't move as he laces his fingers between mine and walks me behind him into the café. I refuse to look at him, but his touch is healing enough. Maybe if I know that this is the last chance I'll get to see him, I can better prepare and do this for good.

He breaks our hands apart as we stand in the centre of the café. I eye the cleaning spray and rag I'd left behind, the citrusy puddled I'd left to soak earlier having soaked in and dried into the tables. The citrus smell is almost intoxicating, but not as intoxicating as Avory's sandalwood and cinnamon cologne which continues to assault my nostrils in the best possible way.

“I'll handle the tables and the floor, and I can leave all the technical machinery to you? Unless you want me to accidentally break it all.”

I can tell from his tone that he has that handsome smirk spreading across his face right now, followed by that small laugh he makes to himself that he thinks no one else can hear, and it makes him that much more handsome and charming and—My brain needs to shut up.

Avory and I create this formal dance of Avory collecting glasses and mugs and piling them by the dishwasher for me to load, while I pass cleaning supplies over the counter for him to overuse. However, to his credit, Avory did a cleaning job which is Sawyer standard of cleaning. I can’t stop myself from glancing at him when he sweeps the floors and collects the rubbish bags.

It’s hot work in the café, but it feels unbearable when Avory's hoodie is pulled over his head, his shirt lifting slightly and revealing the sculpted man underneath. I think back to the photos Gwen sent me on the night of the concert, yet the photos seemed to miss the slim trail of dark hair which leads into the cargo trousers hugging around his hips.

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