![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
There was a Harry. There was a Katya. There were Thursdays.
It was an older shop over on Fairfax. There was a sign in Russian with a smaller English translation underneath. Dry Cleaning & Tailor. As I pushed open the screen door, I could smell the coffee. It wasn't ordinary coffee. It was Turkish coffee. It was Thursday and Harry was expecting me. Harry was a small Armenian man in his sixties with thinning light brown hair and green eyes that actually twinkled when he laughed. His name wasn't really Harry, but that's what he'd called himself ever since he'd immigrated thirty or so years back. He had a wife and grown children. Harry always wore dark slacks with suspenders and a white starched dress shirt. He still rolled his own cigarettes and he made a mean Turkish coffee-thick, scalding hot, and so sweet it made your teeth hurt.
I'd met Harry and his family at a party for a client of mine two years earlier. He'd been a physics professor in Armenia, but now he was a tailor. "You come to my shop," he told me as they said their goodbyes, "I'll give you a good price on whatever you need."
That was our beginning. I'd stopped by his shop every Thursday after work for almost two years, whether I had cleaning to be done or not. He'd close up and we'd sit down for coffee, discussing everything--art, literature, law, love, science, death, music, religion. We shared our stories with each other, the grand ones and the not so grand. A friend once asked me what I did over there, why I stayed so long. I knew what she was implying, but it had never been like that. I didn't even attempt to explain how two people so divided by experience and culture, with years between them, could have so much to talk about. I wasn't sure myself. "He is my friend," I told her, "and he makes me feel...at peace with myself."
In the winter, we'd sit inside the shop warming our feet next to the radiator while we talked. Now it was summer, and I made my way back to the small flower garden that Harry tended behind the shop. I opened the back door and Harry beamed at me from behind the fragrant tendrils of Night Blooming Jasmine. "Katya! What a wonderful surprise!"
Harry always acted as if my visits were completely unexpected. It had become a joke between us. I walked over and he kissed my cheek lightly. "Sit, sit. I'll get the coffee," he said as he pulled a chair out at the small table for me. I handed him a bag of cookies I'd picked up from the bakery across the street. "You are too good to me," he laughed, "I am going to become a very fat and happy man."
I lit a cigarette while he poured the coffee into two small demitasse cups. I let out a deep breath and settled back in my chair to take in the sunset over the buildings around us. Harry sat down and chided me yet again about my awful taste in tobacco products. "American cigarettes are full of chemicals, Katya; that cannot be good for you." We talked about his family. His daughter was going to have her baby next month. Akop, his son, was a dentist and had just closed on a new house. A shadow passed over his face for a moment, and then it was gone. We changed the subject to the teacher's strike. For a long while after that, we sat there together without saying anything, just relaxing. Silence between us was never uncomfortable.
The sun went down and Harry turned on the small white lights he'd strung over the trellis behind the table. We traded our coffee for several brandies and listened to Shostakovich. We talked about the new exhibits at the Museum of Contemporary Art, an article in the New Yorker he'd been reading, Dorothy Parker. We jumped from subject to subject, working on our conversation like a quilt. I finally looked at my watch and noticed it was getting late. I stood up. "I have to go, Harry," I said, "Let me help you put these things away."
I helped him gather the dishes from the table and took them inside. We rinsed the cups and put them next to the small sink. I glanced over at Harry and noticed that he looked troubled. "What is it?" I asked. He sighed heavily and shook his head. "Harry, what is it? Something's bothering you."
He reached over and touched my cheek. "It's nothing, Katya. I am an old and foolish man."
"Well, I know that," I joked, trying to lighten his mood, "But what's bothering you?"
I'd never seen him look like this, so sad, almost embarrassed. I started going over in my head what it might be. His wife? His shop? What? He wouldn't look at me. Suddenly, he grabbed my hands. "Katya, I made love to my wife this morning," he said quietly, looking down at the floor. "I make love to her every Thursday for the last year. Do you know why?"
I could feel his fingers on my wrists, pulsing in the rhythm of my heart's beating. Now it was I who felt foolish. I could feel my face warming with the shame of having what I'd never admitted to myself spoken out loud. I knew. I'd always known. It was more than just coffee. I was stunned that he would acknowledge it now, after we'd spent so much happy time on the edges of it. "You are a beautiful woman, Katya. So smart. Your charm is that you don't realize what a prize you are. That is not so bad for me because you are content to spend your time here with an old man. Maybe that's not so good for you. I have always been a faithful husband to my wife. But now...now, Katya, I think of you when I touch her. It makes me want what I cannot have, should not have. My dear sweet girl, no good ever comes from that. It makes me feel even older than I am."
He still couldn't meet my eyes. I looked at his face and thought to myself how handsome he must have been when he was younger. I thought of us, sitting together like lovers even when we were not. It made me ache to change time and circumstance to suit this connection between us, to have spent our lives together instead of meeting at this crossroad. I stepped close to him. He smelled of brandy and cloves. I took his hand and cupped my breast with it. He looked like he was about to cry and tried to speak. I pushed my name back into his mouth with my tongue. It was a kiss filled with the longing of two lifetimes, with anger, with passion, and with remorse. We moved away from each other, breathing ragged. I walked slowly to my dry cleaning that was hanging on the rack in the front of the store.
I fumbled for the keys in my purse with my back to him. He moved past me to unlock the front door. "It's late, Katya. I'm afraid we both had too much brandy." His voice was heavy. I turned to face him and we both stood there feeling helpless.
"Yes. I'm afraid we did, Harry." I replied in a whisper. "I really should go. Thank you. Thank you for everything. Goodnight, Harry. Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Katya." He opened the door for me and kissed my cheek as I turned to walk out. We pretended that we'd see each other again, next Thursday. We both knew we wouldn't. He said my name again as I walked down the steps. I turned back toward him. He looked so very small and old there-a tailor in the doorway of his shop. "I love you. You know that, right?" he said. He looked tired. I smiled at him and his face began to blur from the tears that stung the back of my eyes.
"Yeah, I know. I love you too, Harry." He nodded his head at me and I turned. I knew he would stay in the doorway until I got to my car. I got in and drove to my apartment. I sat in the car and cried for almost an hour. I never did see Harry again. Once in a great while when I could bear the heartache, I'd drive past his shop. It was always on Thursdays.
Tags:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
From:
turkish coffee is the best in the world
You are so talented. Wow.
From:
Re: turkish coffee is the best in the world
From:
no subject
Great story. I really enjoyed it.
Danny
From:
no subject
From:
Utter rubbish
Me like.
Would you consider sending it to D?
From:
Re: Utter rubbish
Oh, and an aside...would you believe I got a letter from the editor of that certain butcher-zine back telling me: "The poet is always right. Please feel free to submit in the future." Ack. The irony, eh?
From:
Re: Utter rubbish
Do send it when your ready, plenty of time yet.
Hang on a mo. If the poet is always right then why the f..... no, I really don't need to say it do I. ARSE!
From:
Re: Utter rubbish
From:
Ah!
Thanks for another wonderful read!
From:
Re: Ah!
From:
Re: Ah!
Now the week is another matter, entirely. Hargh!
From:
no subject
:)
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
Sending a hug your way!
From:
bravo!
From:
Re: bravo!