When I Ran Away by Ilona Bannister (best books under 200 pages .TXT) 📕

nice, no, definitely Midwestern. Big, open, freckly face with a trendy beard. Probably doing his year abroad or whatever, exploring Europe, reading his poetry at open mics, picking up girls with accents. Optimistic and young. I’m angry that he exists and I’m sorry for him that he has to wait on me today.

“Can I have an Americano, please. Black with a little milk.”

He puts the coffee in the machine. Nothing about me can possibly invite conversation but he says with a twang, “You have an accent, where you from?”

I say, “New York,” in a way that means, Please stop talking to me.

“Cool. You know why it’s called an Americano, right?”

I say, “No,” in a way that means, The fact that you are speaking is causing me physical pain.

The young man, undeterred, continues, “Well, when the G.I.s were in Italy in World War Two, they asked for all the espresso to be watered down because, like, it was too strong for them.”

I say, “Oh,” in a way that means, I might actually die if you don’t stop talking.

He shrugs and shakes his head as he pulls the cup away from the machine. “Figures, so typically American, right? Now it’s served all over Europe. Americans always expect to be catered to. Sorry, did you say you want milk in this?”

I try to keep a blank expression and pray, Jesus Lord, help me not to hurt this young man as I reply, “Listen, you Kansas-ass motherfucker, you would know what I said if you were doing your job instead of trying to teach me a history lesson. Now give me my coffee with milk in it and can I please have some shut-the-fuck-up with that?”

No, c’mon, I didn’t say that. I’m depressed and angry but I’m not a total asshole. What I said was “Whole milk, thank you.” But I thought it and it made me smile.

I do the mother shuffle to leave the cafe: one hand on the stroller, one holding the coffee, back my ass into the door to open it. For a second I can hear Juvenile telling me to “Back that azz up” and a flash of me—the me before Johnny and Harry and Rocky—dancing with some guy in some club flickers in front of my eyes. That girl wouldn’t believe it if she saw me now. I laugh out loud. I feel lighter.

But the feeling ends when I see my reflection in the cafe window outside. My hair’s an awkward length, limp and frizzy. Harry’s white button-down shirt, which I thought made me look casually classic and not still pregnant, clings to the curve of my stomach in this light, the buttons in the middle sticking out farther than the others. A patch of sweat spreads under my arm. The black maternity leggings are baggy around the knees. Did I show up at Johnny’s school like this? Coffee drips stain the front of my shirt.

I watch a girl, maybe twenty years old, walk past my reflection and into the coffee shop. Asymmetric hot-pink mini-dress under a cropped faux-fur jacket. Her white ankle boots—pointed, sculpted, architectural—have arrived from another galaxy. But her eyeliner is smudged and her hair is swept up in a careless mess on top of her head with an ancient turquoise scrunchie, as though her hair doesn’t know how incredible the rest of her looks. But London girls dress like that. Like a chipped manicure—smooth and pretty except for that jagged, edgy, gritty corner on the index finger where the polish came off. I watch her order coffee and I feel ridiculous and ugly and old, embarrassed to put my big, outdated sunglasses on, but desperate to hide behind something.

Ding. A text from Stacy breaks my stare.

Hey G what’s going on?

Me:

Nothing. Wait, isn’t it 4 in the morning there? You OK?

Stacy:

Yeah, baby’s sick, been up all night. Now I can’t sleep. Hey, you will not believe this

Me:

What

Stacy:

Tina caught Joey last night at Jesse’s house. Finally

Me:

That bastard

Stacy:

I know. She’s not giving back the ring. I told her not to

Me:

Good. She shouldn’t. How’s the kids?

Stacy:

They’re good, look at this

A picture of her son, Christopher, in his Tiny Tikes baseball uniform. Next, a picture comes through of her nails. A mint-green manicure with pastel yellow on the ring finger of each hand.

You like my nails?

Me:

Love them

Stacy:

Matches the baby’s party theme. Bunnies and chicks. You know springtime shit

Me:

Wish I could be there. I’m not doing so good today actually can you delete, delete, delete, delete…

I delete can you talk later because a picture of baby Melissa comes through, in a lacy baby ball gown, stiff crinoline under the skirt. She’s about to turn one. Stacy puts frilly headbands on her bald head so people know she’s a girl. A tiny gold baby stud glitters in each ear. She’s smiling. A living cupcake.

I type:

She’s beautiful. I got to go. Have fun at her party

Stacy:

Send me some pics, I want to see this kid

Me:

OK

But there are no pics to send of Rocky from my phone. Harry takes all the pictures.

I have no pictures Stace because I don’t really want to remember this time—delete, delete, delete, delete, delete

Me:

Love you

Stacy:

Love you

On the way into Sainsbury’s I see the old man on the bench outside the pound shop. I’ve seen him on that bench every day since we moved here. Bloated. Pockmarked. The skin on his hands is taut, straining against the swollen alcoholic’s flesh beneath. Sometimes he reads a newspaper cast off by some commuter. Sometimes he sits with a can—cider, lager, alco-pop. Sometimes he just sits, part of the ecosystem of the street, like the post box on the corner and the aging red phone booth.

I was walking Johnny to school one day a couple months back when I saw him passed out on the sidewalk, surrounded by people calling 999 on their cell phones. A stroke or a heart attack, I didn’t know, I just rushed Johnny past so he wouldn’t see and said a prayer. But he’s back on the bench