echo The Lyra was at the corner of 52nd street– a brownstone nook that sat in front of a sprawling park tapestry. The intersection coughed up plumes of exhaust and hardened rocky tar as the mid-afternoon traffic clogged on. The horizon, chalky pink and pastel as evening dipped into night, never did change. The sprawling oaks and elms, constants close by. The blanket of hazy stars above, thousands of years ago fixed in creation.
The first time you might notice it is when walking past, either on the way home from work or back from a stroll in the park. Perhaps the pavement is a monotony of neat cracks and edges beneath a leisurely pace, until it isn’t. You might see a pothole cover tilted upwards like a silver penny. And around it, the error of human hands– the curious quiltwork of reddish bricks, none quite the same hue, an abstract pattern hemming from within the storefront threshold.
Cursive lettering, warm against the vanishing sun. The stretch of a light green awning, an embrace.
Peering past the windows, translucent with a powdery coat like falling snow, the glow of warm light spilled out onto the street. It seemed to beckon, in a soft way, to join those already within. The wooden tables were burnished within the golden flush of the lamps; most of the seats were already claimed, the atmosphere a lilting murmur of voices and shy laughter. The candid photographs hung on the brick feature wall were stilled by time, but the coloured blur of reflections in the glass gave them the semblance of life once more.
Valentine’s day in the city was not marked by any grand expression. Instead, it was in the little things. Flowers and chocolates on sale in the market. Expressions of endearment sent over messaging apps. Restaurants busier than usual.
Just–
That brief moment, in the midst of the hectic swing of life, to express affection that was nurtured inside.
Inside, the radio dutifully played the orchestral opening of La Vie En Rose.
Oui, Jonas Reed thought wryly to the tune, je vois.
He was what one would call the owner of the restaurant. Like clockwork, he paid the rent and oversaw the kitchen operations, and well, also pocketed his fair sum of the profits. He remembered the day it opened, his wife and him tearful with the sort of joy that came after years of hardship. It made it worth it. Every tear cried… every time he’d split open his fists punching the granite wall in the washroom, watching the red watery rivulets vanish with every flicker of hope down the shower drain. Every time Joanna walked away to huddle atop the staircase to their apartment room, the worn shawl tight around her stick-thin arms.
He was older than he would’ve ever imagined. The black of his hair streaked over silver and aged, fine white curling at his temples. After the knee surgery, he’d started walking with a limp. His hands were rough with calluses, but he didn’t mind. Every breath he pulled into his lungs just reminded him of how far he’d come. Still alive. Still here.
And in the end, wasn’t that the greatest gift of all?
The cleaver was in his dominant hand as he sliced open the lamb ribs, the meat pink and fleshy against his favourite cutting board. He seasoned and patted it dry, then drizzled a light rain of olive oil and salt. Once it was seared, he set it aside and began work on the sauce – red wine and stock stirring to a rich broth within the pot. Leaving it to simmer, he turned to the side dish. He cracked open a handful of eggs expertly with a spatula and fluffed the yolk and whites into an omelette, sprinkling in the mushrooms and small capsicum pieces. It had a lovely texture against the white serving plate.
He arranged his final dish with an expert hand.
He was a man of routine, habitually contracted to carry out the day the same way as the last. What was more unusual was that the novelty never really wore off. The giddy anticipation stayed. Once he was satisfied, he set his chef’s hat down, scrubbed his hands clean, and left the last three waning hours of the night for Lucian and Gillespie to take care of the customers’ orders. He ambled out and sat on the bar stool next to the counter, grunting shallowly as his bones creaked in protest. His back throbbed a reproachful ache.
A steaming cup of earl grey was pushed in front of him. “On the house!” Evelyn – sweet girl – chirped, from behind the cashier register. The quip was a familiar joke between them. He chuckled, low and thick, and tipped his head in gratitude. The drifting scent was exactly the way he liked it, malty and distinctly bergamot. He let it cool against the counter top, idly stirring.
Content at last.
Five of the tables were filled. Candle-light and petals scattered at the center, turning the air rosy. Something special for Valentine’s day he had decisively set up. That, and a discount on his wife’s favourite dish – Coq au Vin, serving for two. Savoury stew with braised tender chicken with the flourish of crispy bacon to add depth.
Ah, there was a story behind that that he held dear to his heart. The wisp of memory clasped, as tangible as fingers entwined in his. Precious like the flames in a fireplace.
There were stories everywhere, and he had learnt how to look. Snapshots of connections and love, the very threads that wove the fabric of humanity together, a melody, a song, a craving that everyone knew the instinctual heartbeat of. The world was inherently an expression of love. Of life. Kinship nurtured over time, kindness at the heart of it all.
The truth was that it mattered.
And so at that moment, he saw.
The boy and girl at the first table, hovering shyly around each other in a way that made it seem likely this was a first or second date. Local high school kids, going by the varsity jacket peeking out from the bag. The bowl of mushroom soup arrived first, two slices of fresh garlic bread in the basket. They seemed to warm up, more lively as they shared the sweet potato fries and a meal of chicken parmigiana as the night went on.
(Her name is Sheila Jones and his is Will Cain. They meet during physics class and bicker themselves into a friendship. That’s how it starts. Months pass. Love is the shape of autumn leaves crunching beneath boots after long walks in the park, tubs of Neapolitan ice-cream during Netflix marathons and hours debating the merits of sci-fi movies. It’s like sunlight, a dawn, the realization simply clicking into place one day.)
Over to the table on the right, there was another couple. Regulars of the place. Both were in their late forties, comfortable in long-sleeved sweaters to match the cool autumn breeze. They’d been conversing animatedly while waiting, the man saying something with a lopsided grin while the woman laughed. She lay her head against his shoulder. When the stew and shrimp scampi was served at their table, he pressed a kiss into her dark hair before they dug into their dinner with relish.
(Lilian Beckett and Rick Welch have been married for over twenty years. Their eldest son has just gone off to college in the next state over, and the twins are at home. Rick’s a writer, and she was the mortician he’d contacted while doing research for his book. Well over a hundred text messages and countless phone calls later, they’d had their first date in this exact restaurant. It’s become somewhat of a tradition of theirs every year since.)
The third table had a well-dressed couple, around their early thirties. The man was wearing a pressed white shirt and the woman a formal blouse. Every so often, the woman’s eyes would alight with an emotion close to nostalgia as she spoke, and there would be a faint blush spreading across the man’s face before his fringe fell forward to cover his eyes and he would reach up to tuck the strands back behind his ear. The omelette side and two dishes of chicken with florentine sauce came, and they fell into a comfortable silence, punctuated by brief snatches of conversation.
(Susan Davis and Dan Cortner used to be high school sweethearts. They broke it off during that last year to become friends again, and ended up growing apart after graduation as life took them to different states. It was nearly a decade later that they would both wind up working at the same business firm. After a comedy of errors at the photocopying room, they made plans to go out for dinner to reconnect.)
The fourth table was claimed by a sole occupant– a solemn, grey-eyed man whose gaze was listless as it wandered across the restaurant. His collared shirt was folded at the sleeves, stubble light and shaven, and the tie loosened over an open top button. He kept subtly fiddling with the ring on his finger before realizing and letting go. He ended up sipping on a glass of wine, washing down the manicotti.
(Luke Vaughnn is new in the city. He’d just gotten married six months ago. His wife called earlier to tell him she was delayed at work and that he’d better go ahead for their reservation at dinner anyway. They spend a moment exchanging ‘I love you’s before he does what she suggests. It’s a breezy night out when he walks from the subway. It’s nice. It’s good food too. He thinks she might like the pasta, so he orders one more to go.)
At the last table sat an elderly man, face creased amiably with the contours of age. There was a quiet air about him as he started on his salad nicoise. He seemed similarly content to simply exist and watch the world run its course. There was a moment where pale blue eyes met Jonas’s gaze, and the two shared an understanding of sorts.
(This was the third year Quinn Walton spent this day alone, for the first time since he’d gotten married to the love of his life. Earlier, he’d laid down pink carnations in front of Marie’s headstone and poured a cap’s worth of scotch whisky on the mossy earth. He made a toast to the dead and drunk the rest. It hurt to walk away when the sun set, it hurt, something primal and clawing in that grief that time could never dull, but he had promised to live and–)
The welcome bell above the front door jangled.
“Heya there, pops.” His eyes were the same ocean blue. Face the same round curve and soft jaw. The man held open the door and stepped to the side, and the rest of the family came trooping through. The grandchildren made a beeline for the elderly man at once, all excitedly calling for him. Jonas watched as he swung the youngest one– the toddler– up onto his lap, blinking back tears.
Jonas tasted joy, bittersweet as he drained the last of his tea.
Somewhere, he is certain Joanna still watches.
Written by: Trishta
Edited by: Ryan
