The notoriously slow-moving line was long, and I considered going to Peet’s Coffee across the street instead, but I wanted breakfast, and Peet’s didn’t serve good breakfast, so I stood there and read about alpacas while I waited. Besides, there was an old Pearl Jam song playing over the speakers in Equator. Pearl Jam had been Sam’s favorite band at the time of his death, and since it was a Sam-themed day, that felt like a sign for me to stay.
I didn’t see her until I was about to place my order. She was sitting on the bench all the way to the right, against the wall of windows, drawing in a small sketchbook. A coffee cup sat beside her pencil case on the tiny round table in front of her. She was wearing flared jeans that looked like they were from the 1970s, a rainbow-striped sweater, and sandals that she’d kicked off onto the floor. Her legs were crisscrossed underneath her.
My hand shook as I handed my thermos to the girl in the gothy purple lipstick behind the counter. I vaguely heard the girl ask me if I wanted the single origin or the Equator blend, and I’m pretty sure I said single origin. I wasn’t completely out of my head though, because I had intended to grab one of the prepackaged cups of yogurt for breakfast, but I asked for an egg sandwich instead; because that would be made to order, it would take a while, and I’d have to stand directly in front of October’s table to wait for it.
I dropped my change into the tip jar, approached the table, and stood there hoping October would feel my presence and look up, but she was too engrossed in what she was doing. From upside down it looked like she was drawing a leopard, but it also could have been a skyscraper.
“Hey,” I said.
Her head rose quickly, her eyes wide, her look askance. I watched her closely, to catalog any emotions she might choose to reveal, but she went Switzerland on me again.
“Hey yourself.”
My throat felt dry and chalky. I took a sip from my thermos and the coffee in it was so hot it scalded my mouth.
Silence swirled like smoke in the space between us, and I knew it was up to me to diffuse it.
“How are things?” I said stupidly.
She had been biting on the end of her pencil, but she took it out of her mouth and twirled it around in her fingers like a little baton. “Things are good.”
I cocked my head to the side, to get a better look at what she was drawing. “What are you working on?”
“Nothing.” She shut the sketchbook and set the pencil on top of it. “I’m literally not working on anything.”
“It looks like you’re drawing.”
“Doodling.” She wiped eraser crumbs from the table, and when she spoke again there was a restrained tone to her voice. “I was pretty worn out after Sorrow. I’m taking a few months off to recharge.”
I couldn’t imagine October not working for that long, and I said, “What are you going to do all day? If you’re not working, I mean?”
“We’ll see,” she said. “I’ve been traveling a lot. After the exhibit ended, I rented a cabin in Joshua Tree for a couple weeks. And I went to Rochester for Thanksgiving. I guess now I’ll just be doodling and drinking coffee.”
That explained why I couldn’t find her in town. She hadn’t been there.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Joshua Tree,” I said. I thought better of asking the next question, but I asked it anyway. “Did you go by yourself?”
She made a face indicating that was none of my business. Nevertheless, she said, “No.” There was a pause, and I was certain it was for effect. “I drove down with Diego. And I didn’t talk to a single human for ten days. It was a dream.”
“I’ll bet.”
She stretched out her legs and set her bare feet on the floor. Then she picked up her cup and held it in her palm. It was almost empty, and she stared into it as if it were full of secrets. She pulled her legs back up underneath her. Put the cup down. Ran her nail across a scratch in the table. Looked around the cafe. She seemed nervous too.
I looked at the book in my hand and thought of something I’d just read. “Did you know that alpacas can die of loneliness?”
She digested that fact and laughed. And it was a genuine October laugh. The one that used to be followed by her telling me I was funny or cute.
“Good thing you’re not an alpaca,” she said.
I laughed too, though there was something tragic about the joke, something that hurt my heart. And when I met October’s eyes, I recognized the same nostalgic sentiment there, a desire to make all the tacit conversations explicit.
“Did you get the envelope I sent you?”
“The light sculpture,” she said. “I did.”
“And?”
“I like it.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “Very much.”
“I’m going to build it.”
“Good.”
She readjusted her position on the bench so that only one foot was underneath her, the other on the floor. Then she looked me up and down and said, “Why are you dressed like it’s about to snow?”
The fleece jacket. No wonder I was so warm. “I’m on my way to Guerneville. To visit Colonel Armstrong. It’s supposed to be chilly up there today.”
“Who’s Colonel Armstrong?”
“He’s a redwood. Over fourteen hundred years old. And 308 feet tall.”
There it was again. That smile.
A guy I recognized as someone I used to work with at FarmHouse called my name from behind the counter and handed me my breakfast sandwich. It was all wrapped up to go, and I had no reason to linger any longer.
I turned back toward October’s table, and for
