el arpa

I squeezed fresh oranges for juice the summer I worked at the Musical Offering. Each morning, I would unlock the weathered, cerise side door, trying to avoid the homeless man who slept in the basement.

He’s harmless, the café's owner told me, just don’t startle him.

The Musical Offering sold Early Music exculsively. So while Berkeley's other cafés did brisk business with beats, we were too cool for Beethoven. We wanted it earlier. We were into the harpsichord, the lute, the recorder.

My first customer—right after the last half-slice of orange was juiced—was Amir. Amir was from Iraq by way of Mississippi. He hid violet eyes and long lashes behind horned rims. Every day he wore the same corduroy jacket over a pink izod shirt that was slightly too small for him. He bought an orange juice on his way to German.

Things that occur every day tend to swell disproportionately in one’s affection. This was true of Amir.

On my way home from the café one Friday afternoon, I stopped at the hardware store to pick up materials for signage for a poetry reading we were hosting at my house. I grabbed butcher paper, a big box of crayons, and some wooden spikes for support.

Rounding aisle 7, I nearly ran into Amir.

Who was with a girl.

I dropped my box of crayons onto the linoleum floor. The reds and magentas skittered underneath the metal shelving. Pacific blue, denim, and wild blue yonder spun around my feet and tumbleweed rolled out the door and onto the sidewalk as someone walked in.

I managed a hello and mumbled somethingaboutthepoetryreading. I think I invited them.

We’re buying an alarm clock, she said. Ours is broken.

***
Amir didn’t come in to the Musical Offering for two weeks.

I imagined the conversation:

Who was that?
Oh, I buy orange juice from her.
Well, stop.
Okay, okay. Did you set our alarm clock?

She, of course, had. For 7:38, just in time for German.

Late one morning, just as the daily low slung clouds were burning off, I looked up from a hummus sandwich to find Amir standing on the other side of the counter.

Hullo?

I blushed somewhere between vivid violet and torch red.

He ordered the hours-old juice that was left over from the morning. He paid with exact change and then leaned in close.

I like you.

Which he could say; he already had someone with whom to share an alarm clock.

He slid a junior-high looking note across the almond counter top and walked out the door.

I pulled the tab.

Maggie,
96 colors may go
96 directions,
but there are only 60 minutes
in each hour.
And too late
is just that.

Lamentably,
Amir