out of print.

‘Scuse me, someone says, what’s the music?

It’s classical music. Her accent is polish.

He doesn’t say anything. He smiles to himself but shows nothing and when he thinks about it he kind of likes the answer. The answer you deserve. He comes here every friday, alone. A small, dark place in Tegnérgatan. On the walls, photographs looking like they’ve been put there behind the waitress’s back, yet as if she saw it happening and let it pass. Some multireligious person must have lived here, building altars in all the corners, furnishing with tables and table cloths, and then, everything done, he closed the door from the outside never coming back. On his way out though, being considerate enough to put a sign and a menu in the window. Later, people lined up outside the window with mouths watering studying the menu till someone opened the door and took charge in the kitchen. Those who opened haven’t left since they came here, making the visitor feel like he’s surrounded by guests that exists but a crew that doesn’t. Looking closely enough he can see that their feet don’t leave a print in the floordust and that their answers to questions aren’t really answers at all.

What kind of beers have you got?

We have beers of different kinds (polish accent).

And before you know it there’s beer of a different kind in your glass but you don’t ask how it got there or if you like it. You just drink it - gulping down your eastern european home cooking with it - to the sound of classical music. That’s the kind of place it is and where he comes every Friday. His name is Jonas and he’s in love with a waitress. His father is dead, but his mother is alive.

Jonas and his mother lives together in a small apartment not far from the restaurant. He goes to an insignificant job every day and draws an insignificant paycheck every month. Every Friday he eats at the restaurant (three courses) and every Saturday he cooks for his mother in the small kitchen in their two bedroom apartment. One room each and a living room. In the living room a television they watch every week night; not caring too much what they watch, sometimes they don’t, but the sound is good company as they don’t talk much anymore. Everything said, or at least worn out. His mother asks him why he won’t bring home any friends. Guests are always welcome, she says, you’re not afraid your old mother’s gonna embarrass you in front of your friends? He is not afraid, merely lonely, his difficulties with people the reason he lives with his mother in the first place. He doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t say anything until next week once more asking the same thing. You sit around here with me way too much, I don’t have much to give anymore, but you’re young and should get out more, meeting people your own age. Good thing you have your work and your friends to see on Friday nights. Is there anyone special among your friends? Me and your father wasn’t too romantic but we loved each other and we had you. He doesn’t say anything this time either. He looks at her, crooked smile, raising the volume on the television. He never felt comfortable in situations. Always felt lifted out of them, just above them stretched out in thin air, hand under chin contemplating them. The situations. Hovering up there he has contemplated himself chatting with people in the situations, not recognizing himself. Felt embarrassed watching himself but glad to be able to float up there where the air feels thinner, easier to breathe. Now he’s up there again wondering why someone takes time writing about him, wondering if there’s more to him than meets the eye. Wondering if his fondness for the waitress is a reason and if that is what will ground him again.

He has come here many Fridays now, not more than he can count for he has X:ed his calendar every time she served him. An X for every time she sighted him and robotlike, wirelessly hovered through the restaurant to where he sits in a corner and served him.

Taste good?

Yes.

They haven’t said more but many times. He wonders if it helps saying it many times and if it gives them a bond that every time tightens around their lives. Winds a few extra rounds decreasing their distance. Inching them closer to each other until their bond is a ball of yarn and they’re standing in the middle of the ball protected from the world through layers of yarn. It’s probably not the case. He will have to tell her more. Yes is good, but something more might be required.

Taste good?

Yes...

...I like you.

She has turned, only needing the shortest break to pick up his plate, his glass and place the check on the table in front of him, yet he wonders if she doesn’t stop for a second. Stops, kind of limps, before she picks up speed and continues to the kitchen. He puts money on the table and stands up to leave, surrounded now by people. He pushes his chair back, soundlessly through the Friday night hum, and moves to the door. When he turnes to see her again he sees a footprint in the dust. One print. No guests has moved and there is no prints closer to the kitchen, but two steps from where he’s standing he can see one lonely print. I like you, he thinks, opens the door and exits.

She turns around in the kitchen looking at the door. She sees nothing except a closing door and the back of a regular coming in every Friday at eight, leaving every Friday at ten. She walks to his seat, picks up his money and looks to the floor. There’s a thick layer of dust even though she cleans every morning. Something’s wrong with this place, she thinks, and if she looks further into the restaurant the dust is unsettled by the feet of moving guests, but here, here between the seat he’s just left and the door he’s just closed, no prints. No prints at all.