Tuesday Dinner

It’s pre-dawn in the city, and the morning light is blinding. When I woke up, I had decided to walk to the coffee shop on the corner, which is now manned only by the owner, who stands behind the counter with eyes a thousand miles away.

I order a latte, whole milk and brown sugar, and lean on the wooden counter. “I’m glad you’re open.”

“Where else would I be?” The woman smiles, wringing her hands dry on a mocha-stained dishcloth.

I shrug, looking around the empty cafe that hasn’t been updated since the nineties. “I’m just happy I can still get the best coffee on the west side.” There’s a corner of the wall where the dark green paint is chipping a little. In all of my ten years of being an on-and-off Tuesday customer, I’ve never seen it painted over. A potted plant would be the perfect cover up; the sun hits just right in the afternoon, squeezing sunbeams through an west-running alley. Maybe another day.

“Best in the city, you mean.” The owner corrects with a light voice. She puts a pitcher up to the steamer. She doesn’t have to add, “the only one open in the city”

I go to pay but there’s nothing on the register screen. It’s not even on.

She waves me away as she hands me the hot to go cup. “Don’t worry about it, Sadie, it’s on the house.”

“Thanks.” I realized a half a minute too late that I’ve never asked her name. Annie was usually the one to take my order before, and I’ve always been painfully bad at remembering names. “I’m so sorry-”

“Jeanine.” That distracted look comes into her eyes again as she watches the light outside. “Just Jeanine.”

I nod, like it’s any other Tuesday. “I’ll have to remember that.” Walking to the door, I pause with my hand on the cool glass, watching the street choked with cars on the far end of the sidewalk. Just like every other morning. “Hey, Jeanine? Have a good day.”

The hard lines etched across her forehead smooth a little. “Thanks. You too.”

Outside, the sounds of the city roar like a song in my ears. Just like every morning, the street sings with idling engines and frantic horns, people fighting to get out of town. I weave between the cars moving about six inches an hour, and stop in front of the trendy little flower cart that had popped up about a month ago. There’s no one in sight. The owners told me once that they had family upstate, cousins that grow the peonies for the cart. I hope that they were able to make it up there before everyone else decided to leave too. There’s a single bundle of fading greenery and baby’s breath left. I dig the rest of my cash out of the old pink wallet at the bottom of my purse, just enough to match the hefty price tag for the “certified organic assorted greens”. I leave it on the apple green counter and take the bouquet.

The sun is still hiding behind the skyscrapers, but the sky is close to summer noon brightness, my sunglasses doing little to help. I pass the two resident maniacs that are usually posted on opposite corners, screaming about the end being nigh. Today, they’re dancing arm and arm, still proclaiming “The end is nigh!” Their enthusiasm is a sight to behold. I keep my head down as they wave at me and shout their spiel about eternal doom and gloom. Just like any other Tuesday.

When I get home, the cat is gone. I don’t know how in the world Mr Fluffernutter managed to escape, but I force myself to change his water and open the window in the kitchen to leave a can of wet food open on the sill. He’ll come back, I tell myself, and light a candle.

My friends are due at six. Corrine and her husband Brandon said they’d bring a charcuterie board, Hudson offered his oldest bottle of wine, and Maarika would handle dessert. It’s the perfect setup, the same we’ve had going for the last three years. We always honor Tuesday dinner, just like any other week.

It takes me the rest of the day to make dinner. It’s a recipe I’ve never been brave enough to try, but truly, there’s no time like the present. Mr Fluffernutter is nowhere to be seen.

Maarika arrives first, no surprise, and lays her famous somloi trifle on the kitchen counter as I arrange the droopy eucalyptus and ferns in a vase.

“Need any help?” She offers in her quiet accent.

I gesture to one of the cupboards. “Sure. Let’s use the china tonight.”

“Aren’t you feeling fancy,” she says as she pulls five of my grandmother’s wedding plates from the shelf. It’s all the family heirlooms that can fit in my tiny apartment. Five plates for five friends. It was meant to be.

My eyes flick involuntarily to the light outside. Sunset orange is drowned out in silvery yellow brilliance. “Might as well.”

Hudson, Brandon and Corrine arrive together. Corrine can only manage waterlogged smiles at me as Brandon takes the cheese-laden board from her hands. “We couldn’t miss Tuesday dinner.” He says for her. Hudson only nods. Just another Tuesday.

The food is phenomenal. I kick myself for never trying this recipe sooner. Hudson says it’s fine, we know now and I’ll just have to make it for another Tuesday dinner later on. We all shift away from the light shining through my drawn curtains and agree. It’s another Tuesday.

We pull out a card game and Corrine takes a shaky breath. “I love you guys.”

Dessert sticks in my throat. “Love you too.”

It’s well past 9pm, and the sky is only getting brighter. Is it me, or is it starting to get warm? The city, the ever singing city, has gone quiet.

Brandon stands up to crank the music. It’s one of the group’s favorite songs, an overplayed hit back from our senior year of college. The lyrics blissfully proclaim that youth will last forever, and nothing truly matters but the moment that we have right now. A chuckle sneaks out of me, and we all look at one another. As one, we jump up and begin to dance to the pounding beat, shouting out the words until everything becomes a blur of sound and movement. Silvery light pours in from the windows, and the floor begins to shake under our feet. Five friends, dancing and singing just like we used to.

After all, it’s just another Tuesday.