chapter two

she slept for a very long time - over 15 hours - the brain and body shutting off, a defense mechanism for when things get too painful or confusing to handle. eventually, the nearly colorless yellow of the winter sun woke her. and of course, she couldn't keep her thoughts off it all: the streetlights, her reflection, the notebook. she could feel apathy leaving, the slow takeover of indifference by intrigue. it was terrifying. she wanted to stop thinking about it, and the best way to avoid anything is to go on with the same dull routine - her same dull Saturday, breakfast out, the library, an afternoon at the movie theater. so she dressed hastily and left the house.

she was walking up Union Street to IHOP - not because she especially enjoyed IHOP, but because it was where she always went, it was fairly close and fairly cheap and always predictable, and there were always lots of families. she preferred being around families on weekends because parents were too distracted to notice the people eating alone, and the children (with syrup in their hair and ketchup on their faces) never cared who you were with or, in her case, who you were without. there was a mist of light rain as she trudged up the hill, eyes looking down at her feet and the cracks in the sidewalk, when she ran straight in to someone. a plump woman in an ugly christmas sweater, apologizing profusely (not that she had really caused any harm), with a broom in her hand to sweep the leaves from the sidewalk. "oh please sweetheart, i'm so sorry, i really am, let me get you a drink - after all it is our opening day and we're not exactly bustling with business," she said as she gestured with the broom to the building on the corner of 19th and Union besides them. she had walked past this corner countless times, so many saturday mornings, and as long as she could remember there had been nothing there besides boarded up windows, graffiti on the walls and door, and a rotting and fading sign for a hair salon. but today, the little building on the corner was freshly painted in purple with a bright red sign that read THE LIGHTSWITCH CAFE.

the woman, talking history or politics or small talk or something, put her arm around the girl's shoulder and began to guide her inside. she was so busy being bewildered at how she could have possibly missed the construction and development of the little building on the corner that i suppose her lack of a response was taken as a silent agreement that free coffee was a great idea (which it was).

the cafe was beautiful. wooden tables lined the edges of the room, each with a different stained-glass lamp on the tabletops, bamboo-paneled walls, purple velvet armchairs and a red couch in the center of the room, with an ornate golden chandelier hanging overhead. it was breathtaking and warm and cozy, and certainly with far more character than the sticky booths and plastic tables of IHOP. of course she stayed - who wouldn't? there were a couple other people there, quiet people who looked like they kept to themselves and made her feel safe - a couple holding hands across and reading the paper at a table in the corner; a young girl with tattoos are her arms by the window; an old man drinking tea and 1/2 playing chess with himself, 1/2 star in to space; an awkward looking boy in a read hat reading nietzsche. she took a seat at one of the side tables along the window, a small table with a simple red lamp, ordered a breakfast scramble and toast with her free cup of coffee... "coming right up"

the coffee was strong (usually she stuck to tea, it must have been a year or two since she had had a cup), and the scramble was slightly salty, but in general good. the woman in the christmas sweater glowed and laughed and smiled lots, coming over often to check on her, introducing herself as annette and her husband behind the counter as joe. perhaps it was the jumping feeling in her stomach from the caffeine, or how comfortable everything was around her, or just the fact that she was somewhere she had never been before (a rare occurrence), but she knew it was time to take out that little notebook. she excused herself (from herself) to the restroom first, part a result of the coffee, and part as what she promised herself would be her absolute last avoidance of opening the notebook.

only a couple minuets later, she returned to her table to find a little peice of binder paper, folded in to a triangle, sitting on her empty plate. the rest of the patrons were gone, besides the old man in the purple chair and annette and her husband. on the peice of paper in a blue pen someone had written neatly "for you."