“ All the days seem familiar, yet I begin to feel the difference slowly creeping in. Whatever changes may take hold soon, I either embrace them hitting me at full throttle, or run away, again. And I ran away for long enough. ”

Today was Sunday, the second day of the weekend, and yet another day Anon works as a barista in a café as his part-time job. Besides moving from Skin Row into a much better district (in this case, Noah Arc) and getting into university, getting a job was a part of the plan. Anon never considered it an optional task – he felt like it had to happen, because living on a small budget doesn’t mean living on no budget – some money has to be made. Aside, who doesn’t like to treat themselves from time to time for all the effort they put in?

That nameless and brandless, bland and generic, little café that he spotted near was a perfect spot to start. He never thought that the first time would be the charm, and with little hope he held inside himself he entered the café and asked for a job. But the manager of the café, a pretty cheeky and plentiful dinosaur with a goatee beard type outgrowth beneath the end of his beak, that he met outside talking on the phone, almost immediately got him in. As if Anon was the one he was looking for.

Listening to the manager, keeping his eye on him, Anon remembered that there were two types of people – people who abide by the rules, and people who abide by humaneness. The manager was the second type – he understood Anon perfectly, even related to him on some kind of a weird friendship level, and got him as a barista on a weekend, eight-hour long, day shift, from 7 AM to 3 PM, where he will be replaced by a different barista, working in an evening shift.

First days felt weird, since every barista he got to meet and had to work with was fresh blood, and, just like him, were bare bones in this. They knew little to nothing about what and how they needed to perform, and fear of failing only made them more nervous. There was no barista who has worked here for a long period of time, no one to ask for help by bringing clarity to the instructions, given out by the manager. And so Anon, and his fella on a day shift, had to work on their bare instincts and feelings of right and wrong.

Days like these pass really quickly, and Anon always gets a bit surprised noticing how fast the weekend came and went. And with how quick the time goes, he had to adapt, to achieve as much as he could, without breaking his mental state in the meantime. That meant reallocating all of his things for the morning, when his head is completely fresh and open, like doing homework. It isn’t beneficial, and for the first couple of times he felt like he was about to crack upon a simple question – it was all for leaving his evening empty, so he wouldn’t just die while doing homework.

Anon got up at six, leaving himself an hour to do everything that needed to be done. With all the homework done yesterday, he only did his morning routine of washing his face, drinking some tea and eating some sandwiches, dressing up and leaving his home. This was yet another episode of when actions lose their preserved humanity, leaving only accurate, mechanical movements. And no one can blame – because it’s a bane for everybody.

The coldness spread around. Pale sky radiated its weak light onto the dark streets. November was closer than one can imagine. Halloween is close, and he didn’t even consider celebrating it. Looking around, noticing the decorated small businesses and homes, he found himself feeling a bit alienated. Feel of not belonging here, being different from what others expect, only increased. Only to be brushed away with a light hand and a thought – I just grew out of this.

Cars roam around the city, people pass Anon by, delving into their own problems. Everything in this massive organism, constructed with concrete, metal, glass and waste, works on its own, filling the gap between certain things. Every human, walking to his workplace, barely notices his own significance in the scheme. Every car, roaming the veins of streets like blood cells, moves something important, something that makes everything else shatter with unimportance. Everything can depend on one, and this city, this little paradise, is a primary example. And Anon is just an afterthought, an addition to the already existing schematics, serving little purpose, but still added for the nuanced beauty of it. Gladly, Anon understands his position – and tries to make as much as he can out of it.

The café beautifully blends in, like a soldier in urban camouflage. Its exterior, with how bland and unforgiving it looks, is a primary example of the gray beauty that is soviet brutalism. No wonder, the previous owner was a Russian immigrant. – Anon thought. The windows were clean, and Anon saw a typical early morning in the café – no lights were on, no slightest movement spotted. He hates getting up early, but there is barely anything to do at home on Sunday, aside from smoking in the kitchen. With no more hesitation and feeling his ears freezing to the sides of his head, Anon unlocked the door and entered.

It was pretty warm inside. The gray empty depressing walls only add to the brutalism. If Anon had any issues with eyesight, he was sure, he would mistake the dark gray paint for naked concrete. A couple lights hang from the wires, blindingly bright when turned on. Typical little tall tables were scattered around. Further than the dining area, was a counter with an empty showcase. On the wall behind the counter was a chalkboard, with the current menu written on it with block lettering, aside with some electronics. No room for happiness. The previous owner definitely had an eyesight as straight as a horizon. – Anon thought.

Walking around the tables, he made his way to the counter. There, he dropped his coat behind and got an apron. It was cheap and blank, not even with a logo, but it was okay. Anon turned on the lights and began the preparations: putting things out on display, preparing the machinery for a long day. Fifteen minutes before the opening, the preparations were done, and so he began waiting for his bereaved buddy to arrive. Only to receive a call from the manager:

— Sorry, mate, you’re on your own…

These words made Anon’s world splash and shatter for a quick moment. What does he mean on your own? Is this a sick joke? How could Anon handle this kind of thing all alone? He barely even successes with a buddy – and today he was met with a suicide mission. A thought about leaving the job and relying purely on some other types of monetary gain, like drawing for furries, was rather sweet. Not like he likes it here anyway.

— …but you’ll get a double paycheck for today, and a raise!

These words made Anon’s world revive and the thought about leaving the job – ditch like a frightened animal. Sometimes it’s so simple to get him to smile.

The café opened its only door, and the work day finally began. For the first couple of hours, Anon did nothing but read on his phone. Of all the changes he experienced in a year, this is the one that came abrupt and sharp, and the one he barely understands. Reading pushed aside everything, even videogames (more than that, he barely even plays nowadays!), but the worlds that he envisions, the characters he impersonates – all of the things that make literature what it is pay off, and he forgets the price of this little habit.

But then, unexpectedly, he gets his first customer. Running inside, a sportsman comes to the counter and asks for water. Anon nods, turns around to open a fridge, gets out a bottle of water and comes to the customer. Only to then meet the customer face to face.

— Leo? – Anon asked, dumbfounded.

A smile slowly grew on Leo’s face, and a second later he began to laugh his lungs off from this surprise, almost spilling the water. Then he calmed down, drank a bit and, chuckling, said something in French.

— Well who’s who, but I didn’t expect for you to work here! – Leo said.

Anon smiled. He liked to meet his friend this weekend.

— Running away? – He asked.

— Not really. – Leo responded. – Just a habit.

— A good habit.

— Yeah, a good habit.

— I should do it from time to time, maybe I won’t look like a fucking manlet.

— Oh, come on, you are not a manlet! You’re… rather athletic. And it’s said by a man who almost dedicated his entire life to sports!

— But I’m not athletic. I’m really not.

— Jesus… What makes you think so?

— Because I spend my money eating junk food, almost never going outside aside from getting here or to uni, and doing basically nothing but sitting at home doing my own shit. I even smoke cigarettes! I know an athlete who ran a marathon always smoking, but I’m not like this, alright? I’m not an athlete.

— Ugh… Well, whatever floats your boat I guess.

They chatter for a little bit more, and Leo leaves, saying he still has to run a bit more. Talking with Leo let off all fear Anon had within himself, and being all by himself until the middle of the day wasn’t that much frightening anymore. And now, with all the customers slowly rolling in this piece of artwork of a café, Anon concentrates on being the best of the best.

 

***

 

The day passed quickly, and now Anon was home. The sun is still shining outside, pursuing the phantoms roaming around the streets with its weak light. The sky was a bit cloudy, but ever so pure and clear. Silence was spreading around the apartment; everything feels like covered in a good layer of cotton – any sound emitted by anything, whether it would be the hum of the fridge, the splash of a water drop, or the hissing of a lit cigarette, any sound immediately disappeared as if it was never there in the first place.

Anon was sitting in the kitchen on a plastic sill, smoking and looking outside. This was yet another last cigarette he was smoking, completely relentlessly, not even trying to savor it. With every drag he took, a good portion of the cigarette turned into reeking ash. But he didn’t mind, he didn’t think about it at all. Right now he was thinking about a myriad of different things, meanwhile looking outside, at the beautiful and depressing urbanistic experience.

The question remained unanswered: how did he get here? Although he answered it many times, all the answers he found were unfulfilling, as if they drop a huge significant portion, throw out an important detail. Shitposting, school changing, the choices he made, the result of said choices – all of these questions, one on one and in unison, didn’t answer the question. There was something over there, in the distance. And that something was a pale-gray pterosaur with wings softer than silk and a voice of total deconstruction.

He knows he thinks of her. He knows, because if he didn’t he wouldn’t feel so much pain in his shin. How many times he tried to avoid thinking about her, and yet ended up committing himself to the memories? The hallways, the cafeteria, the auditorium, the classes, the rooftop… All these little scenes fly one by one, circling around like the Moon around Earth. All of them hold significance. All of them remind him of her. Of what she was. Of what she turned into. Sometimes, in these little depressing moments, he wants to revert time and to retry, to throw the dice once again, knowing what to do and what to do not. But he understands that if he did that, he wouldn’t have himself here – sitting on a sill, watching the wind breeze through the trees, smoking a cigarette and slowly rebuilding himself anew.

I doubt I’ll live to thirty if I keep on thinking about this. – Anon thought as he threw out the smoldering remains of a cigarette. With nothing left to do, he gets down from the sill onto the floor and walks out of the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the counter in the process. In the living room, he sits down at his table, settles the bottle beside him, turns on his laptop and searches his games library for that one title that will fill all these meaningless hours. Soon, he found one, booted up, and began searching for a teammate or a full-fledged squad. And he found one on his sorry head.

The first ever thing he was met with was a person, yelling into the microphone with a distinct Irish accent:

— …and you just don’t get it! Get ready to die, boy!

The other person that Irishman was talking to responded:

— Alright! What’s good! – Then Anon heard a sound of what could be a charging handle on a toy gun. – Like, wassup?!

— Oh, okay, aight! How about some real shit ?! – Anon heard another charging handle, this time definitely not for a toy gun. – How about that ?! – Followed up by some indistinguishable Irish blabbing.

Then the third person, a female, joined in to settle the debate down:

— Okay, okay, guys, I guess there is a distinct difference of a SCAR “Fortrawr” NERF sponsored NERF gun…

The other person began laughing, the Irishman followed.

— …and an actual twelve gauge that just racked an IRL slug . – the female finished.

After a second of silence, the Irishman said:

— We’ve been here before, boy, I don’t need to explain!

And only then the second person, not the Irishman nor the woman, spotted Anon’s presence.

— Wait a sec, who the hell is this? – he asked. – Nick?

— I don’t… Ow, fuck! – the female, named Nick, responded. – I forgot to put our squad to private… Should we kick him?

— Nah, nah, nah! – the Irishman said. – He’s high rank! Two ranks higher than us!

A second of silence.

— Yeah, he is. – the other person said.

— Well, at least he can carry us around. – Nick said, jokingly.

The Irishman burst out laughing, the other guy just chuckled.

— Aye, buddy! – The Irishman said. – No offense, though, we’re just fucking around! Anyway, let’s get this party rolling now, aren’t we?

And the search for a match has finally begun.