by Emily Branwell

Created on: November 11, 2008

The woman behind the counter is tall and thick in her usual black T that falls off the shoulder and exposes a little black strap. Her hair is black and her skin is pale but she looks alive. She is alive. She wears well worn blue jeans held up low on her hips by a black belt studded with silver. A biker's belt but she is no biker. And around her neck an unexpected touch of color; a heart shaped ruby red sparkle in an antiqued setting hung tight on a black plastic rope. Her name is Shannon. That is the last name I would have given her and it makes me wonder what her real hair color is and what she was like as a child.

"Do you want room?" I hear her ask the man before her and it's a strange question without any place because of course he wants room. Everyone wants room, room to grow and room to breath and room to squeeze more in. Squeeze more into life and more into the car and more into the ice cream bowl. Of course he wants room.

"Ummyeah." I am appalled by the lack of passion with which this answer leaves his lips. I imagine myself walking over to him and turning him round by the shoulders and saying with as much force as I'm able so that he will understand the importance of room, I have lived in the two most populous countries in the world. I have traveled with sixty in busses made for thirty. I have lived in two room apartments with twelve people. I have been left behind standing on the side of a dirty road with shops closed and fairy lights dangling down and promises of returns because there was no room. Room is of the utmost and impassioned importance.

"..and to go." But I don't say any of this. I just watch him fill the room in his coffee cup with half and half till there is no more room and then he walks out the door heartlessly. I remind myself of where I am and that fact that here there is so much space and so little room.

Shannon is good at her job. This caf is full of happily caffeinated people. They are content to be here, as am I. This is not only due to the mustard yellow of the walls or the calming jazz playing in the background. It has to do with her too. There is a familiarity about her standing behind the counter and reading the local hippie papers.

At all the tables where people sit there are different forms of life. A mother talks condescendingly to her daughter about frosting and sharing and you wonder if she always speaks that way or if she is ever real. The girl doesn't mind persisting in asking questions. She obviously feels free to speak

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