Pensively, I made my way inside. The door obliged the bell. The café was buzzing with life. My eyes scanned the room mechanically, inquiringly. There were only short tables left. Such a horror for a person of average height.

 

I glided between legs, tables, children, and chairs to make my way to the cashier. I expected little originality from the menu. As usual, prices in these cafés were like skyscrapers, battling to reach the sky. I placed my order: coffee and some food. 

 

I took a seat, my back forced to hunch over like a decaying Kapok. There's one perk to being sat so low: one gets to see so much. Of course, many argue "That's a stretch", but when was the last time you've read some stories? Anxieties, love, determination, peace, affluence. Many things manifest in simple things like shoes, the hem of trousers and dresses, the rhythmic jolting of the legs, the flirtatious games of footsie. The cleanliness around each table, the state of lives and marriages. 

 

Among the field before me, my eyes caught onto something unexpected. A server with a slight limp and healing bruises, unbeknownst to him, tells a story. Without delay or fail, my imagination to hold of the crayons and the oil paint then embarked on filming a docuseries about this poor man's life.

 

‘Stop it!' I tried to command myself. ‘Why do you keep doing this against my will?' 

 

I have never learned to control this mind. Like a child, it runs and wanders, and rarely towards a meaningful point. Maybe there's a seed of curiosity to understand people. The curiosities, motivations, priorities, and belief systems. These are the most fascinating facets of human life.

 

He's in his late twenties, I would hazard. His hair is well-cut, but his stubble has seen better days. He's yawned twice in the last five minutes despite it being peak hour. He has a ring on his left hand and a watch, which he re-examines at an alarming frequency. Blooming like ink is a bruise on his mid-shin and on the side of his right leg, and a few more on the other leg.

I would wager he's a new father.

 

He passed in front of me to the table on my right. He smiled as he lowered their food onto the table, followed by the drinks. Meticulous and very knowledgeable. Tray folded to one side with a bow, he asked if they needed anything else. His smile was polite and professional, not overly warm or intimate, clearly well-practiced and accustomed to customer service. His eyes were soft, but at this closer distance I could see the slow carvings left under his eyes by the erosion of sleep. Not deep craters of exhaustion and fatigue, but something gentler which may only just be becoming chronic. 

 

Just before he left their table, I realized that my interest had progressed into listening conjoined with a forward lean that was slowly encroaching. I pulled myself back, recomposing myself. He passed my table again on his way back. There was a moment of hesitation in his pace by my table, and in the periphery of my vision, I felt his gaze. He must have felt perceived my earlier intrusion. Maybe he assumed I wanted to inquire about my order. My awkward gaze at the little child at the counter must have saved me from meeting his eyes. Was a rendezvous inevitable?

 

His ring, it was difficult to comment on. It still had a shine, but he didn't work in the kitchen. He didn't play with it either. Did he get it polished? Was he happy and comfortable in his marriage? No, I think his marriage is fine. It's the baby. The waking up and staying up at night. The rearranging of the furniture to fit the crib, maybe a rocking chair. 

 

Seemingly, even the lights were allowed their rest when he got up to feed and change the babe. How considerate. 

 

But all the bruising and the fall. How unfortunate.  

 

The time checks? Maybe picking up the baby from a relative? Going home to change shifts with his wife? Maybe he has another child in preschool?

 

My coffee appeared. When did it get here? I hadn't noticed him approach; my coffee simply appeared, as if the universe, tired of my speculations, decided I should attend to something real. I wrapped my hands around the cup. Warm. Grounding. Bitter.

 

"Careful, it's hot," he blurted

 

I almost jumped. I really hadn't noticed his presence. His voice was soft, almost like a spoken whisper. I looked up. He was standing there, closer than I expected. Then our eyes rendezvoused. That same smile was present: professional, polite. His eyes, however, had questions. Maybe not questions, but vigilance. Sleepless eyes, but fogless, sharpened by the need for safeguarding.

 

"Thank you," I replied, studying his shirt. "Is it always this busy?"

"Around lunch-hour, always." He turned to leave.

"At least it's almost over," I offered.

"Yeah, just one more hour to go," he confirmed and left.

 

I took another sip of my coffee, and in the dark surface of the black sea I saw it. All the customers had left. The closing sign dusted off. The tabletops wiped with precision, fast but not hasty. The chairs upturned on the tables. The receipts checked and the money counted. The reassuring nodding to the manager, with the hope he'd remember what they spoke about. The apron flying towards the hanging rack. The café gone dark. The door obliging the bell one last time for the day. Outside, the city is quieter than his mind, but not as sharp or determined as his walking. His shoes grazing the pavement. 

 

Then the scenery changes, and everything comes to a halt outside the apartment building. The two-step climbing of the stairs. One hand on the rail, the other carrying milk and food. ‘No elevator,' declare the scabs on his soles. On foot to the third floor, marching up the hill. The lock clicks from the swift twist of the key. The knob turns, its stiff neck aching, but he's home, finally—

 

"Sir?"

 

I blinked, my body diving back to my seat, the café snapping back into place. I blinked a few more times. He's standing in front of me again. This time there's a concerned frown on his face. 

 

"Are you okay, sir? Is there something wrong with the coffee or the food?"

 

The food? When did the food get here? "Oh no, none at all. I was just...thinking."

"I understand. I just have to let you know, we're closing in ten minutes. Would you like me to pack your food and coffee for you?"

"Oh yes, thank you very much. I would appreciate that. So sorry, I didn't realize how much time had passed."

"No worries, that's alright. Must be some good thoughts," he added before taking it away back to the kitchen.

 

If only he knew. 

I wonder what he thought about me? If he did.

At the back, he received a call. He picked up the phone, and then his shoulder unfurled, his face brightened, and his frown loosened. Suddenly, the story unraveled, like fabric from the tugging on loose strings. 

Maybe I had been right after all.

Or maybe not.

Maybe somewhere, in a small apartment, a baby had just fallen asleep.

Or maybe a message had come through: I'm okay.

Or maybe it was something else entirely—something no stranger, no matter how observant, could ever earn the right to know.

 

Across the café, the server moved on, carrying his life as invisibly as the tray in his hands. And for once, I let him. The danger of observation, I realized, is not in what we see – but in what we so eagerly decide must be true. I heard him laugh at something a colleague said. He looked unburdened. Not a father, not a husband, not a story. Just a man laughing.

And that, perhaps, was the only real thing I had witnessed all afternoon.

 

Title: The Observations of an Alien