January 17, 2016

As dusk draws near, a stout, sluggish figure stumbles out from a smoke-permeated bar around the corner and onto the cold Manhattan streets, where fluorescent billboards brood over suited worn-out men and overly embellished women, where lights blind cab drivers and colorful expletives strew the ocean of traffic. 

Oh, pay no heed to the stout, sluggish figure. Heed should be given to the boy who is watching the figure. You see, he isn't just any other boy. He is the boy. With a heart beating to clicking Jimmy Choo stilettos, clonking Italian loafers and thumping rubber soles. With the naivety of a toddler and the ferocity of an explorer. With a fervent soul. And a dream. 

As he strides toward the staggering figure, he realizes that his subject of attention is a well-dressed man in his early forties. He catches a glimpse of the man's eyes - soulless. Their brief eye contact is broken by a series of retching followed by vomiting. 

"Sir, you alright?" inquires the boy, offering the man his handkerchief. The stench is undeniably revolting.   

The man, completely ignoring the handkerchief extended before him, wipes his mouth on his expensive sleeve. "What do you think, boy?" he replies in a drunken slur as he manages to stand straight. He reaches into his chest pocket and pulls out a cigarette.  

The boy, fully aware that it is a rhetorical question, says, "It's Valentino, sir," 

"Huh?"

"Your suit, sir. It's Valentino," answers the boy, staring at the vomitus-stained sleeve. No longer expensive. 

The man, with the cigarette now lit between his chapped lips, lets out a little laugh. A melancholic laugh. "You new around here eh, kid?" 

Another rhetorical question. But this time, he answers, "Yes, I just moved in a couple of days ago," 

There is a moment of silence, perhaps ten seconds of silence, amidst the blaring car horns, the purring engines, the brawling in the bars, the indistinct chatter between business associates, the muffled squealing of trophy wives and heiresses comparing their Harry Winston jewelry over a table of caviar canapes and champagne.

"Well..." the man begins, dropping his unfinished cigarette onto the frozen concrete and stomping it out with the heel of his leather brogue. "I'd love to stay and chat, kid... but in this hell of a weather, I'd rather not freeze to death," He starts walking away, slowly. But then he stops. Without turning his head, he shouts, "Good luck, kid! You'll need it!" He starts walking away again, but this time, with more assurance. 

The boy hasn't moved an inch as he continues watching him lurch deeper and deeper into the congestion of flesh and cheap eau de parfum. He continues watching even after he has become nothing but a figure. A figure now so familiar that he can instantaneously distinguish him from other figures. A wobbly yet unwavering figure. 

Lights begin to burn brighter as the sky grows dimmer. It's too late to have dinner, yet too early to go home. The boy, though clad in a Shelton wool sweater, a fleece-lined jacket and a leather coat, is crumbling in the bitter cold. The relentless wind howls through the jungle of concrete and glass, sending shivers down the spines of skyscrapers and men. He sees groups of friends, parents and their children, and couples huddling into coffeehouses and cafes to escape the horrendous mid-January freeze. So he follows suit.

"Hi, welcome to Starbucks! What can I get you tonight?" the barista asks warmly, her smile widening as if she's worried that her "welcome to Starbucks" doesn't sound as convincing as she has wanted it to. But she does have a beautiful smile. And very white teeth.

A small metallic badge pinned on her chest catches his eye. It reads Hi, my name's Louise. "You can just call me Lou!" she giggles, slightly blushing. "Oh...umm...sorry about that...I didn't mean to umm...I think I'll just have a bottled mocha frappuccino," he mutters, feeling rather embarrassed.

"Alrighty!" she chirps, almost too enthusiastically. "Are you sure you don't want anything warm? You know like a steamy cup of latte? Or hot chocolate? I heard it's like Antarctica out there,"

"Umm...no I think I'm fine with just that," he replies, smiling awkwardly.

The coffeehouse is filled with idle talks, laughter and opened MacBooks, filled with life and warmth, filled with strangers with untold stories and forgotten dreams. The boy nestles in a heavily cushioned pod-shaped hanging chair next to a large window that, sadly, doesn't provide viewers with any view of the outside world. They can only see their reflected selves, their hurried moments of affection, their lipstick-stained coffee mugs, their involuntary facial nuances, their unintentional displays of vexation. It's like watching a reality TV show, watching the lives of other people on a glass screen. But then, only then, they realize that they've been watching themselves all this time, watching their own lives becoming other people's lives. On the other side of the window, passersby can peer into the lives of others: a woman with her lover but not her husband, a divorced father with his two daughters, a group of teenage boys trying to woo one of the pretty baristas, two college girls munching on birthday cake pops while trading dirty secrets, a boy sitting all alone by the window staring into space. It's like watching a family sitcom, watching the lives of other people through a glass screen. But then, only then, they realize that the thespians they've been watching are actual people and that the lives they've been speculating are actual lives.

From his quiet corner, the boy observes, taking small sips of his frappuccino every now and then. In between soundless sips, he thinks of her.

The way she laughs. The way she talks about her dreams. The way she tilts her head and squints her eyes when she doesn't get a joke. The way her eyes gleam in the dark. The way she hums along to The Beatles' PolyThene Pam. The way she walks barefoot on grass. The way she chews on her fingernails. The way she...

His reverie is suddenly disrupted by a voice. A shrill, merry voice. "Hey! I got you coffee!" Lou is standing next to him with a cup of coffee clasped between her long, slender fingers, displaying a set of impeccably lacquered nails.

Before he manages to get his consciousness completely out of the clouds to utter a word, Lou has already put down the coffee cup and started walking away. One of her colleagues is trying to suppress a snicker, while another is smirking at her. There is something written on the sleeve of the coffee cup.