Every afternoon, Café Apricot opened in room number two, where sunlight entered through the dirty windows and white, transparent curtains, turning the room into the apricot-colored sunset after five o’clock. The logo was designed by the owner herself, drawn from the book about fruits. It was carefully cut out and attached to the glass door of room number two with a piece of cloth, leaving a faint mark that never disappeared.
Sunlight stretched across the red carpet in slow-moving shapes, changing as the evening passed. The apartment, including room number two, always smelled of dust, old carpet fabrics, and the apricot jam that was stored in jars in scary room number four where no sunlight ever reached. To the child, Café Apricot was real.
The folded notebook page, with an uneven handwriting, presented the exclusive three offered dishes on the menu. The menu was rewritten each morning, like it was still learning how to exist.
Tea – 1 money.
Cake – 2 money.
Special Apricot Dish – 5 money.
The currency of Café Apricot was money.
At exactly five o’clock, the usual customers arrived. The grandfather always knocked three times before entering. He knew that the preparations for the opening were very important. Three times. The first knock was always ignored by the owner, who was busy putting everything in their proper places. The second knock was heard, but not taken seriously yet. The third knock always startled the owner. She stopped whatever she was doing and could not resist smiling. Each day the formal voice that appeared only for the Café Apricot would say. “Excuse me, is there a table where I can sit?”
A nervous child would try to imitate the formal voice, saying.
“Welcome to the café, Deda… oh wait, you are a customer… can we start again?” Three knocks and a formal voice.
“Welcome to the café, you can sit here.” Proud smile while turning around so the customer would not see it.
The grandfather entered with a book under his arm. He always chose the chair near the window, even before looking at the room properly. After him, grandmother followed, sitting next to the grandfather.
“Every time I come here, the prices become higher,” she said, “yesterday the cake was only 1.” “Yesterday is not today,” the child answered.
The small wooden table was placed in front of the guests, it was too heavy for the child to move. That is why grandfather helped her to arrange it every day before the opening, but grandmother could not know that.
On the table, a small vase was holding three daisies, which were picked up during their morning walk. Carefully folded napkins were stolen from the kitchen, and spoons too small to be used for anything except imagination.
The child carried invisible dishes with both hands.
“Today’s special?” the grandfather asked.
The menu changed daily.
“Apricot cloud soup,” the proud announcement came. “With cinnamon air.” The word “cinnamon” was learned recently while helping to bake cinnamon rolls with the grandmother.
Orders were taken with absolute seriousness. Sometimes the child repeated them quietly in her head, just to make sure nothing was missed. Invisible food was prepared with complete dedication. The child moved between the tables and the kitchen with urgency, while the grandparents maintained the calm patience of customers who had all the time in the world. The café never needed other guests. It already felt full.
The grandmother always tasted the tea in a small pink cup very slowly, very gently blowing on it first, as the owner each time reminded her that the tea is very, very hot. Every aspect of the café once in a while became a matter of discussion. Customers and the owner argued about the portion sizes, the main dishes, and prices, but never the café itself.
When the sun disappeared from room number two, Café Apricot closed. The closing time was announced formally every evening, and it was accepted without a protest. The payment was always done by cash, money. The grandfather put real money on the table as a tip for excellent service after each meal. The tips were not spent immediately, they were stored in a small brown wooden box that had a metallic clasp that hurt the child’s finger each time she tried to open it. Because of that, she believed the money was safe. If the box could hurt her, surely it could stop thieves too. The tips were building themselves into tomorrow’s strawberry ice cream or even a cloud-pink cotton candy.
After the apricot sunset, the number two room was just the number two room. It was number two, as when you walked into the apartment and counted the rooms through the corridor, it was number two.
In the child’s mind, it remained number two. In time, the child was no longer a child, but the room remained the two.
Grandfather stopped knocking, and the menu disappeared.
The carpet was still red. The window still let in apricot-colored light. But nothing organized itself into a café anymore.
Inside room number two, Café Apricot remained closed forever.
And there were no more knocks.
Not even one.
Creative
