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Author's Note: There isn't much to say about this one. As with most of my works things get a bit heavy at certain points in the story but I kept this one more tame. Thanks to djkauf for the timely edit. As always comments are appreciated.

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Setting down the fresh cappuccino for the difficult customer, I give her a forced smile, “Here is your corrected order maam.” I speak with as much sincerity as I can offer under the circumstance but the fake value of the words still carries through, so I add “Have a nice day!” Looking at me with a look of disgust she continues to chat on her phone with work. After picking up her cup she turns to leave and I hear her say rather rude remarks towards my future in life to the person she is chatting with on the phone.

With a frustrated sigh and eye roll I move on to the next customer. With how popular our little hideaway coffee shop is this early in the morning, you have to get used to rude customers who aren’t the least bit civil before a cup or five. Thankfully it’s a Friday so everyone is a little friendlier than they would be on a Monday. What keeps me working in this particular place is that once all the crazy morning crowd leaves, it’s actually a nice quiet place to stop and hang your hat for a while. With several shelves of books open for public use we tend to attract the quiet reading type. If we weren’t so close to the corporate district we wouldn’t ever have the morning rush but the influx of people keeps the place afloat so the more relaxed can enjoy the rest of the day without feeling claustrophobic.

With every difficult customer I have to remind myself of the reason why I need to keep this job. While we are very much the book café with free wifi most would recognize, there are also small musical performances on Friday and Saturday evenings to help attract a little night life. Normally I work mornings as I seem to be the only one able to handle difficult patrons without throwing the coffee down the front of their $10,000 suits. If not to ruin the suits then to ruin their snobbish expressions as they take pity on the poor hourly associates. With free afternoons and evenings I work as an intern in a radio station that plays oldies music. I may not be a huge fan of the genre but I can appreciate the talent that goes into making classics. You see, I am one of the people who spend their entire life in the pursuit of a music career. I only have the opportunity to play at coffee shops or side venues since I don’t have the best material but it’s always been a dream of mine to have one of my songs on the radio.

Between the two jobs and performing every weekend in the hope that someone will like my songs enough to sign me; I have no real free time. It’s probably for the best, since my place is a rather raggedy loft in desperate need of repairs, but it suits my needs for a dry place to sleep.

As the café starts to empty out of all the nine to fivers, I move away from the counter and start wiping down the tables. It always amazes me that in the ten seconds that someone sets their coffee down to pick up a newspaper they manage to spill crumbs from some mysterious food source all over the tabletop. But that’s why I make the big bucks I guess, to clean up after those not awake enough to be aware. As I take to scrubbing up a particularly stubborn coffee spot I look up at the sound of someone coming in the door. The first thing I notice is that she is alone, the next that she is pretty in the girl next door kind of way. She looks my way scanning the room and we lock eyes. An innocent smile dances along the corners of her mouth before she sets off to one of the book corners.

She picks up one of the more popular books and takes a seat at one of the big comfy reading chairs while I resume my cleaning duties. She sits there doing nothing but reading the entire rest of my shift. I move closer to strike up a conversation or elicit a small smile of acknowledgment, but she is so engaged in her book that I don’t have the heart to disturb her. As my shift ends, I cast a final glance towards the girl before walking out the front door. The weekend came and I worked at the radio station when I wasn’t performing. Come Monday at the same time as before, the girl walked into the café and picked up a different book and started reading in the same chair as before. This time I saw her smile in amusement and cry with sadness at different passages but I didn’t recognize the book to know why. As my shift ended I again took a last glance before leaving.

On Tuesday I found the book she had been reading and put it with my belongings to borrow. We have always had an open policy for employees to borrow the books, but I have always been reluctant to have the distraction away from my music. When she came in today I noticed something a little peculiar. When one of the newer baristas was serving an elderly gentleman, there was a fumbling of the saucer and it crashed to the floor and shattered. Everyone looked up disturbed by the sound, everyone that is except the girl. The sound did nothing to distract her from the novel’s imaginary world. Thinking the book was that engaging I played it off as being inconsequential. After my shift at the radio station I found myself sitting in my place with the book in my hand. Tired from my hectic day at the station I set out reading a couple of pages. One page turned into two, two into ten, ten into a chapter, and then a chapter into the whole novel. I’ve always been a fast reader, thankfully, but I did cost myself a bit of sleep. I did not regret my decision. In that moment I decided that the books this girl was reading would be must reads, regardless. Days turned into weeks and I found myself becoming more versed in various literature genres. She seemed to read every type of book we owned, so I decided to follow suit. One particularly slow week at the station I read a book she had not and decided to place it at her normal reading spot with a note.

As she walked in this particular Thursday she went over to pick out a book. With a book in hand she walked over to her chair where she found my book and note waiting. Picking up the book she read the note I had heavily debated writing. “I noticed you sit and read a book here every day. I particularly enjoyed this book. Despite the fact it is a bit shorter than what you usually read I hope you give it a chance.” I decided not to sign my name so I wouldn’t seem quite so creepy, but she looked around the room upon reading the note. Her vision fell on me and she smiled while I shied away in embarrassment at having been found out. Picking up my book selection she opens to the first page and sets off on a grand adventure. Every couple of minutes I would look over to see how she was reacting and I even walked past a few times to see which part she was reading. She proved to be a slower reader than I am but I could see her speed in no way inhibited her joy and sorrow she felt in each event played out in the book. My shift ended and I noticed she had only a few pages left, but I had to get to the radio station so I wasn’t able to see her final reaction when she came up for air. I found myself writing songs more geared towards love and affection than the sorrow and loss of my previous focus during my free time that evening. Friday could not come fast enough.

When her normal time did roll around on Friday something unexpected happened. She showed up with a friend, a female friend, thankfully, but it meant we wouldn’t be having a conversation about the book today. Instead of retreating to her corner with her friend she walked over to the counter where I was currently sorting out the new batch of muffins from earlier this morning. I smiled at the pair and stepped up to assist them before any of the other associates had the chance. “What can I get the two of you?” I wanted nothing more than to ask the girl about the book but I figured now was not the time. With a meaningful look shared between the two of us her friend spoke. “I’ll take a latte with one of your chocolate chip muffins.” Then looking towards the girl I have grown to care for despite our lack of conversation, she started making hand motions. The girl responded with her own hand motions while smiling at me the entire time. Her friend then turned towards me “she’ll take a mocha with one of the scones.”

In that moment her doe eyed innocence made sense, she was deaf. I wanted to slap myself for being so stupid and not realizing but there was nothing in our interaction to know, not that it mattered. With surprise written all over my face I carried out their order like I have so many others before them. As the friend stepped away from the counter the girl looked toward me with a sad smile. I looked straight into her eyes and smiled the friendliest smile I have ever made. It seemed to lift her spirits a little bit but the enthusiasm of earlier was lost. They went over to her corner and broke into conversation without saying a word. From a distance I marveled at the ability to speak with your hands as the artistic flow and motions that seemed to speed up the entire conversation to a streamline. When my shift ended I looked over to the pair still talking and smiled my own sad smile. The girl looked over to me for a moment and I waved goodbye while giving a smile. She gave her own small wave goodbye which caused her friend to look over at me. Blushing, I ducked out of the awkward situation on my way to the radio station.

On Monday I had another book waiting for her, this one from my own limited collection of books. It was a story of a boy whose parents kicked him out of the house when he revealed his dream to become a musician. The book was one of those you read which feels more like an autobiography than a fiction novel for me. To me this was the ultimate test to see if we could ever get to know each other. Setting up the book and the note at the chair I waited. A customer tried to take the seat but I persuaded them into another chair using the allure of a free muffin. She walked into the coffee shop at the same time as always and gave me a smile. She recognized that I had had a rough morning but at the sight of her I broke into a contented smile, the difficulty of morning patrons forgotten. Upon spying the book at her chair she looked at me questioningly. I motioned towards it with a nod of my head and she wandered over and picked up the book. I played the lines of the note out in my head as she read them. “This has always been my favorite book. I hope you can give it as well as me a chance.”

With a smile she sat down and started devouring the book in leaps and bounds, reading much more quickly than I had ever seen her read before. Every once in a while I would see her look up towards me with heartfelt eyes before returning to the turmoil hidden within the pages. I knew the book almost by heart despite my previous lack of passion for reading. With each look she cast me I could tell where she was in the book, but I also got the feeling she recognized this was more than just a book to me, it was my life.

When she reached a particularly rough patch in the story, I brought over a box of tissues without having been asked. In my motion to place the tissues her eyes had managed to scan my wrist seeing the lowest of my scars before I quickly pulled my hand away and covered them under layers of clothing. She looked at me in sorrow while she took the time to dab her eyes and blow her nose. With greater fervor she returned to the novel while I resumed my duties. She finished shortly before my shift ended and sat motionless in her seat thinking over the novel. Looking towards me while I helped a gentleman ordering for a meeting needing fifteen coffees of various makes I saw that this book now meant the world to her. She took out a note pad and started writing while I continued to make the coffees as quickly as I possibly could so that we could chat. She set the book and note down on the counter, smiled toward me, and then walked out of the coffee shop. Sad to see her go, I continued making the order a little slower. With the end of my shift I stood there looking at the note setting on top of the book, contemplating unfolding it to read the message or accepting her walking out as punishment enough. It wasn’t until that night after my work at the station I finally worked up the courage to open the message. The first thing that struck me was her hand writing, it was like calligraphy in beauty adding emotion with every stroke. “Thank you for sharing this with me. I will cherish this story forever.”

Sitting on my bed I pick up a book from the café’s shelf and delve into another ingenious world. I know she hadn’t read this one in our stock as it was kept in another section in the back to keep it protected from the clumsier patrons. This book proved to be less enjoyable than some of the others but the end message is what sealed it as worthy, the level of love and acceptance the friends have for each other speaks more than all the words in the book could ever say themselves.

In this moment I realize that she has accepted my life and I still haven’t shown full acceptance of what she has shown me. Throwing on a coat I race to the library and check out several books to help me learn sign language. The next day we return to our routine. Come Friday I’ve educated myself slightly on deaf culture and can sign enough to have a basic conversation even if I’m a bit hesitant and slow in making my signs. As she walks in I wave hello and she smiles in response. Heading over to her corner I see her sit down to start reading, before she has a chance to get started I interrupt. I place a complimentary mocha on the table and sit down across from her. She looks up at me questioningly. With slow hands and many moments of hesitation I start our conversation, “How are you?”

With a surprised happiness she signs back much too quickly for me to catch it all. I shake my head from the overload and she seems to catch on. With a smile she responds, “Good, thank you. How are you?”

Glad of her courtesy in using simple sentences and signing slowly I respond with the only response I know. “Good.” Then with hesitation and well practiced hands I go for broke. “I would like to get to know you better.” The pause after my asking feels like an eternity before I see her start to sign in motions I can’t understand.

She gets the hint and then responds with a simple “Yes.”

My heart feels like it wants to burst through my chest from joy and I find myself letting out a sigh of happiness. She smiles and looks over towards patrons at the counter. I look over and let out a surprised, “oh.” She picks up her book and starts to read while I help the customers. When my shift ends I see her wrapped up in her book so I write on a napkin that I have a performance in the café tonight and I would love it if she came. I never saw her response as I walked out of the café on my way to the station.

My work at the station dragged despite its crazy pace. I couldn’t get tonight out of my mind and trying to decide if I should sing one of the songs I wrote about her or my usual fare. When setting up on stage I still hadn’t decided which type of songs I was going to perform. I kept tossing the idea back and forth in my mind. It wasn’t until I saw her standing just inside the doorway with her friend that I knew which song to perform. Dressed in a skirt and blouse my heart more than my head decided that she deserved to be serenaded. She sat next to a speaker like I anticipated which was why I had plugged in my guitar instead of leaving it unplugged like I usually would. I started off with a more melancholy song about growing up and not being able to meet the world’s expectations. The girl and her friend both exchanged a look of significance and signed a couple things to each other before returning to listening. I didn’t recognize the word being used a couple times but figured it was in reference to the book I lent her to read. The next song was a more upbeat song of rising to the occasion that life has placed before you. The final song of my set was the one where I poured my heart out to a mysterious girl I met one day at a coffee shop. I sang the song directly to her more than anyone else in the room. From the feel of the beat and my look of significance she understood the words I was singing. Her own heart seemed to melt a little bit before she closed her eyes and just felt the beat ignoring me entirely. Hurt, I pushed through to the end of the song. As the cheering went around and several people shook my hand I cast my glance to the speaker and saw they had already left. That night in my bed I felt on the verge of a breakdown that never came.

I spent most of the weekend learning sign language instead of working on my music. When Monday rolled around even the worst customers couldn’t distract me from my intention to talk to her in a full conversation, but she never came. Despite her no show, I continued to study sign language instead of reading or writing music. On Tuesday she never came. My enthusiasm for studying sign language faltered thinking I had scared her off. It wasn’t until Thursday that she showed up with a book in hand. Walking to the front of the counter in determination I gave pause in my effort to clean the countertop. She set the book down in front of me on a dry spot and looked me directly in the eyes. Concerned by her holding gaze I start the conversation. “Are you okay?”

Ignoring my now fluid hand motions after my constant practice she begins, “Read this book. If you still want to get to know me after then, you will know where to find me Monday.”

Without another sign she walked out the café as my calls for her to wait fell on deaf ears. I looked down at the leather bound book seeing that it had been through a rough life making me fear what lay beneath the safety of the cover. I placed the book in my bag before returning to work. My shift dragged in the café without her there and the book taunting me from its home in my bag. During my shift at the radio station I ran into one of the talent scouts for a record company. He told me he would be going to my performance next Friday because he kept hearing good reviews of my talent. The fact I worked at the radio station and served him coffee from time to time didn’t hurt, I’m sure.

Once reaching my bed that night I opened the cover of the book. The first thing that struck me was the title page. In the corner I saw a picture of the author, it was written by the girl! Looking at her name printed next to the picture while I played it along the tip of my tongue before practicing signing her name. Once content that I could sign her name like I have been doing it my entire life I start reading. The story that followed was probably the most brutal account of a life I could have ever read. At multiple points I had to set the book down and stare at it across the room like it was some animal that might attack at any moment. The book was about a boy who grew up in a rather normal household. At the age of 12 the boy started puberty and hated the fact he was turning into a man. He started his own hormones to prevent a male puberty after searching online extensively. In the process he learned that he was transgendered, but he also learned he would never be accepted by his parents. In secret he prevented his male puberty until one day his father caught him dressing up in his mother’s clothes. The punishment was so severe that the boy was hospitalized from being beaten. In the process enough shots had landed on the boy’s ears that he could no longer hear, but it was his father crushing his vocal cords under his fist that prevented the boy from ever speaking again. Child protective services stepped in at this point. He was adopted by a single college professor who would never be able to have children because she was infertile. It was in the safety of this home the boy grew into a woman, learned how to communicate with the world, went to college, and aspired to become a writer. The journey was long and tortured in this full length novel. It ended much like the novel he had shared with her, the protagonist wondering if anyone could ever love someone so damaged.

That night I found himself unable to sleep while I reread the entire novel this time without interruption. The next morning came early but with so many thoughts and emotions on my mind the day passed in the blink of an eye. Throughout the weekend I read her book several more times, between lyric writing sessions or working at the station making sure a new band’s debut was flawless.

Come Monday morning I found myself struggling with what words I would say when she finally walked through the door. All too soon I found her sitting in her chair with a book in her lap. I noticed her casting glances my way more often than normal and that when she would turn a page was impractical for how little attention she paid the words. When my break arrived during a lull in customers I carried over two mochas and two scones and set them down on the table. I pulled her book out of my pocket and set my folded note on top of the leather cover and slid it across the table. Then I casually took a sip of my mocha and nibbled on my scone waiting for her to read the message. I knew firsthand how tough it was to face that folded message after sharing your life story with a complete stranger. After minutes of hesitation where I patiently sat eating and drinking relaxed, she worked up the courage to pick up the note. I didn’t make any significant motions so as not to scare her while she read the note, “Thank you for sharing this story with me, I will cherish it and you forever.”