“I love the…heat, you know? The pressure to perform? The way one decision can change the whole course of a meal, table, or even the whole service.” He moves his hands around a lot as he tells me all this—and hearing him talk about this is better than any magic trick.
“That’s why I want to add new stuff to the menu. I’m worried that we won’t be able to keep up with the competition. The regulars, they’re all getting old, and the new people in the neighborhood are hipsters and like, white rich kids who just graduated college, you know?” I nod, because it’s impossible not to notice the shifts happening in our neighborhood, the way it doesn’t look the same anymore. There are more coffee shops than bodegas, more noodle and cocktail bars than places like Dolly’s.
“I don’t want this place to get lost,” Dom says, his voice a little quieter than it was before. He takes another sip of his coffee and looks at me, like he’s making a decision. And when he starts talking again, I can tell he’s decided to trust me with something precious to him.
“Lolly and Pop are already having trouble keeping up with the bills. That’s why we don’t have a hostess anymore. That’s why we’re down to only two servers.”
“I didn’t realize,” I say softly, and I want to reach across the table and touch his hand. He nods solemnly and his eyes are on fire as he says what he says next. “They’ve done everything for me, Cleo. Everything. Keeping this place afloat is the least I can do.”
I think about his paper, and how he was so adamant about Macbeth deciding his own fate. He wants to do everything he can for this place and he’s worried it won’t be enough.
I follow Dom’s sleepy eyes as they look down to check the time on his phone.
“Shit. It’s time to close up.” He stands and dumps his empty mug into the small sink. He yawns again and stretches and I want him to lay his heavy, sleepy head on my shoulder. I want to put his worries to bed along with him.
“I can walk you out,” he says. But I don’t know how he could think I’m ready to say goodbye.
I check my phone. There’s nothing from Mom, and the lack of notifications feels like a sign.
“You’re tired,” I say. “And there’s only a few people still here, right?”
“So?” Dom says.
“So I can stick around and help,” I say. “I mean, only if you want. I’m meeting Sydney later, but I have some time to kill.”
Dom bites his bottom lip, rubs his hand over his hair, and grins.
AURAS
Sydney is holding a creamy-looking bubble tea and a sunset-colored one too when I meet her in Chinatown. She’s wearing a faux fur coat, sunglasses, and big pearly earrings, and she looks a bit like she could be an extra in an Audrey Hepburn movie, which is to say she stands out quite a bit on the littered, grubby sidewalks of downtown Manhattan.
“Hey, girl,” she says. She hands me the creamy tea and loops her arm through mine, and her familiarity makes my heart squeeze. “What’s on the docket tonight?”
So far, Sydney and I have done a photo shoot at the coffee shop Layla and I would stop by every morning, beat the high score on as many games as possible at the arcade Layla and I used to frequent in middle school, and ordered milkshakes as big as our heads with ridiculous toppings at the divey burger joint Layla took me to for my fifteenth birthday. We drank them so quickly we got brain freeze, and then we raced to see who could finish the crazy toppings—like cheesecake, M&M’s, and brownies—first.
Tonight, a particular corner in Chinatown is on the itinerary: a tiny jewelry store that is more well known for its aura readings and crystals than the necklaces and bracelets they sell, at least among believers in that kind of thing.
“Gigi first took me here when I was ten,” I tell Sydney as we push open the shop door. It’s tiny inside, and it smells a bit like a library, which is comforting to me for obvious reasons. “Gigi was really into all of this kind of stuff—chakras and horoscopes, auras and fate. She was always saying to listen when the universe is trying to tell you something. She got her aura read once a month, and every now and then she’d bring me with her. Then, after she died, I brought Layla whenever I came. But she was never that into it. I think it’s haram, so maybe that’s why.”
There’s a small line, so I explain how it works to Sydney while we wait. “You sit over there,” I say, pointing to a red stool with two hand-shaped panels on either side of it. “They take your photo, and then when it develops, you’ll be able to see what color your aura is. They tell you what it all means.”
Sydney unlinks her arm from mine and walks around the small shop, smoothing her hands over all the huge chunks of rose quartz. She bends down to look through glass cases at dozens of tiny rough pieces of amethyst, smooth stones of jade and jasper, and even asks to try on a turquoise necklace.
“This is the best place you’ve taken me, Cleo. For real. It’s amazing.”
I nod. “I know,” I say, feeling myself slip into remembering the last time I was in Chinatown with Layla. We didn’t even come here, but the sadness can leak into every little crevice of my mind if I let it.
“I was just at Dolly’s,” I tell Sydney, eager to think of something happy. She spins to face me with a shiny piece of obsidian in one hand, pale opalite in the other.
“Was Dom there?” she asks, and I nod.
“You guys have some cray-cray sexual energy. Tell me everything.”
I blush, but then I tell her about Dom and his small plates. I tell her how he showed me around and that I helped them close up. I don’t tell her about volunteering to work there, though, because it feels almost embarrassing—that I’m so desperate to hang out with Dom that I’ll work at his grandparents’ restaurant for practically nothing.
“Sounds like he’s as into you as you are into him,” Sydney pronounces after I’ve told her most of my story.
“I never said I was into him.”
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t even turn around to look at me. “Okay, Cleo.” But under her breath she mutters, “Someone’s in denial.”
“Are you buying any of those?” I ask her. She’s amassed a small pile of stones that range in color from deep blue to pure, nearly translucent white.
“Depends on what my aura says, I guess.”
When it’s finally our turn, she abandons her stones on the counter and steps up to the chair to have her photo taken. “You put your hands on the panels,” the woman behind the camera tells her, and Sydney settles both her small hands in the right spots on either side of the chair. I go next.