Read Online Antiphony by Chris Katsaropoulos - Free Book Online

the back of the counter and brings his drink out, searching for him. He raises his hand in a gesture of guilt more than anything, admitting that he is the one who has caused her the extra work.
    â€œYou had the extra large with room?”
    He sees now, as she approaches, that he has misjudged. She is not young. It was only an assumption he made based on the type of girl he usually sees behind the counter, and also because of the peculiar hat she is wearing. The hat is a kind of faded velour chapeau suspended atop her head and apparently held in place by a black mesh net that encases it. He seldom sees anything this whimsical on a woman her age. It’s surprising that they even let her wear such a thing in this store, it stands in such stark contrast to the green aprons that are required as a uniform.
    â€œI like your hat,” is all he can manage to say.
    â€œThanks,” she says, handing him the scalding hot cup. “It’s really two hats.” With her hands free, she reaches up and tugs the black mesh net away from the underlying tam, which flops down over her ears a bit. “I bought them separately, but then I realized they work better together.”
    He wants to ask her where one would find such things, imagines this older woman—older than he is—rummaging through bins in bargain basements and the racks of vintage boutiques in the rough and tumble neighborhood that flanks the west end ofcampus. She must be older than he is. Her eyes have the look of having seen too much. When she examines him more closely, her eyelids droop lower, crinkling at the corners into fine, crêpey folds, as if she is ashamed to be serving him and cleaning up after him. And this is perhaps what evokes the next admission from her: “I just started here over the weekend. The PR firm I was with laid me off… and I need the health insurance.” She steps closer. “It’s not all bad. The people here are nicer, and I get to listen to this fabulous music all day. At my old office, it was deathly silent. You could hear someone whisper on the telephone from across the room, twenty yards away.”
    He hadn’t expected to have to speak to anyone here. He wants to be alone with his wounds for a few minutes, before facing the day at work. He turns away from her, prying the lid off his cup and pouring thick cream in. To fill the open end of the conversation his mishap has begun, he comments on the music. “Who is this, Bill Evans?”
    â€œYes.” She has followed him to the condiment station where the milk and sugar and napkins can be found. “I think it must be. Listen to those lovely gaps between the notes. The tones just hang there, suspended in the air. He gives them room to breathe. Like he is creating space.”
    â€œDo you play?”
    She considers. “I used to. I was trained as a classical pianist in college. But I don’t have time for it anymore, not the time it deserves. If I tried to play anything now, I’d only disappoint myself.”
    â€œI play some,” he confesses. “When it’s late and no one else is around to hear.” He smiles and regards her again. It is a raremoment for him when he can talk to someone about a topic in which he is not the acknowledged expert. He carries so much more around in his head than nearly everyone he meets. “Mostly some of the easier Schubert pieces. I’m working my way up to Beethoven’s Emperor and Grieg’s A Minor.”
    â€œVery impressive—you’re teaching yourself? I used to give lessons to the daughters of Hyde Park profs, but I couldn’t stand being dreaded so much. And hearing so much bad music. They would look at me like I was running a Nazi death-camp when I made them stumble through their scales. Now I sing, in the choir at the Central Avenue church. Much more satisfying.”
    There is something challenging about this woman, a sense that she knows how much she