It was intoxicating. He breathed deeply that unique smell that came from coffee, dust, and second-hand objects, expanding his withered lungs. If scent was a sound, the café would hold a cacophony. As it was, there was nary a customer around. A single waitress was fluttering around trying to keep on top of cleaning an aging space where shelves of “atmosphere” bred dust mites and hid the decaying carapaces of insects.
To many, the place would seem dated. Unable to keep up with the trendier sites down the road it was full of bric-a-brac collected without a singular vision, or at least none that he could identify. Not even the blue-rinse brigade made use of this cafe anymore. Not since Vybes-on-Winston started offering senior discounts to fill their seats during the lulls.
Arianna clutched the fingers of Roden. She liked the way she could tell him exactly how she felt through the fluttering of pads and nail jabs. Right now, she was telling him that she was hungry. He already knew this. He’d known this for weeks now. It was why they were here today. A last resort.
The walls had been covered in blackboard paint, and each table bore a small jar of coloured chalks. Some areas were covered with Perspex panels to protect more famous pieces. The wall boasted a cryptic poem by a well-known local poet waxing lyrical about the coffee or possibly his seatmate’s bosom. One corner held a series of political cartoons lampooning local politicians and even one of the said politician’s responses back in the form of a limerick.
If Arianna could lick the chalk from those ones she’d be fed for a year. Roden released her hand, careful to do so only once he could block the exit with his body. The first moments were often fraught. He could feel the muscles of his neck and back clench, ready in case he needed to lunge into her path. Today was an easy one. As she slid loose, her fingertips trailed over his far longer than natural, she immediately began to circle the room sniffing like someone with constant unattended allergies.
He delayed at the threshold for a moment; it was hard to see her like this. His chest was tight and only the smell of the room was giving him hope that she might find what they needed here. Crossing the room, he ordered drinks, hers with almond, his with oat, and selected a table with a good view of the room.
Arianna was murmuring pleased noises as she examined the tchotchkes on shelves, careful to stroke their auras without letting her skin touch down. She would’ve been a dancer. It was there in the grace of her movements; in the way she could hold her core so still while flowing in a choreography all her own. The staff paid them no heed. They didn’t seem a likely risk to the history they were paid minimum wage to guard. That would be their first mistake.
Roden didn’t ask Arianna to take a seat. This was an important moment. It worked best if she had the chance to select her own meal. Originally, he brought things home from antique stores, second-hand shops, verge-side collections, and even pieces he knew were rich in family history that he smuggled out from under his parents’ noses. It had surprised him how empty so many things were. How very many things’ people could collect that they never even connected with.
His home now would be called minimalist. People would praise it as Spartan or monkish. They would look at his clothes, often new and unadorned and consider him unencumbered. At times he did miss having things. He thought occasionally about the magic cards he’d collected as a kid, or the knucklebones he’d shared with his sister, or even the photo albums – they’d been the first to go after he’d failed to find something suitable. Yet, as he watched Arianna, her smile a joyous one that shone brighter than any sunshine, he regretted nothing.
‘Are you waiting on anything else?’ The young woman placed his order and gestured to his table number. He shook his head. She looked around the room and then at the two drinks but made no comment as she returned behind the counter to check her phone.
He didn’t call Arianna over. The drink was a treat for after. First, she needed to pick her meal. He was starting to worry that nothing here would be suitable. They were running out of options unless he wanted to figure out how to break into museums. Although he now knew not all those collected items would offer the sustenance she needed.
The doorway let in a small drift of autumn air. Just enough warmth that he’d not needed his coat, but an edge that promised rain was on the horizon. Arianna’s skirts didn’t shift in the breeze. A man walked in, elderly, a paper tucked under his arm. He ordered a coffee before drifting to sit outside. Roden sipped his chai. Not as good as the trendier places. Likely this was the ground stuff with milk powder added to give it density.
She’d stopped moving. For a while now she’d been spiralling around three spots, as if uncertain where to land. Now she turned her face to his and pointed with a smile. He rose and crossed the small room in three steps to look down at what she’d found.
It was pretty. A small ginger cat made of porcelain. The tip of its tail had been chipped and there was a good layer of dust on it and around it that indicated it hadn’t been moved in a while. He could see the appeal. Imagined that it had been a gift from a grandparent to a small child that treasured the item, but also had played with it, not happy to just place it on a shelf to be admired and forgotten. Arianna tended to prefer items that belonged to children. Although not just kid’s toys. He’d made that mistake, pinching a little boy’s ball from the park only to find that Arianna could gain nothing from it.
The waitress passed behind him, carrying the coffee to the old man outside. Once she’d crossed the threshold of the door he gave Arianna a nod. She grinned, her mouth widening further and further, a cheshire cat’s grin of teeth filling up her small face. Her fingers elongated until they drifted against the floor and the room became desperately cold. He braced his hand on the wall, careful not to touch any of the chalk writing and held himself still as the air of the room began to curl and shudder, newspapers and menus fluttering uneasily.
Arianna levered her neck forward and opened her mouth wide. When it was touching distance to the little cat she inhaled and a howling, wild and abyssal, filled the shop. A fine mist of rainbow colours shot through with gold flowed up from the porcelain object, forming a whirlpool draining into Arianna’s mouth. Roden counted the seconds as they passed and sighed in relief when he reached five. Five was a good enough feed to last her another month. Two more seconds and the winds dropped away, the air warmed up, and Arianna’s face was once again smooth and perfect. All that was left of the cat was a small pile of ash.
‘Daddy, can I have my hot chocolate now?’
‘Of course.’ Roden smoothed his daughter’s hair, relishing the feel of the warmth under his fingers, and lead her to their table.
The waitress passed through, smiled and blinked confusedly, likely wondering where the little girl had come from. Arianna settled her skirts carefully on her chair. It was her favourite dress, a princess dress from a Disney movie. It was the one she’d been wearing on her birthday. Roden drew in a deep breath, his lungs feeling full for the first time in a week. One more month with her by his side.
Sarai Mannolini-Winwood (she/her) is an avid creative writer, literary theorist and academic. She is intrigued by the stories of belonging to place and the social imaginary of speculative fiction. Her work is available academically in TEXT, Creatio Fantastica, and Axon, professionally in The Artifice, and creatively in Eunoia Review, Emerging Possibilities, and Creature.
Published 8/7/26