The Shadow Without A Man

I waited tables in Barcelona for 3 years after finishing my BA in English Lit. I was backpacking through Spain and fell in love with the vivacity of the place. I secured a job as a waitress and rented myself a small flat. I was a waitress seven days a week, and took evenings to explore the city, and by that I mean, the men.

I had life all figured out, and I was totally content. Well, almost. There was this man I waited on every day. He was a bit elderly, with soft features and well dressed.  Without fail, for the past 3 years, he'd come to the café each morning, sit at the same rickety corner table: the one half shaded by the roof and half exposed to the sun. He ordered the same café y bollo, in his accented but perfect Spanish. He never asked for a newspaper, never had a book or any company to share his morning coffee with. Him, I didn't have figured out. 

I don't know why he puzzled me. Maybe because he was always alone, or because he left a generous tip. I didn't like to romanticize about him, though. He didn't seem like a romeo waiting for his long lost Juliet, nor the old rich man who had a dark, muddled past. He was..unreadable. And this is what drove me crazy. I never could figure him out. I loved to observe and de-mystify people. Somehow, I could never unravel this man. In fact, he made me rather uncomfortable. Maybe he was trying to read me too. Maybe not. 

Then one day, he stopped coming. Just like that. That made me even more uncomfortable. I wondered if something happened to him. Or, had he moved away? Or had he simply just had enough of the café y bollo? He didn't come the next day either. Or the day after. Or the day after. In fact, he didn't come for the next 14 days straight. I don't know how many days he stayed away after that. I quit at the end of my shift on that 14th day of his absence. I went to my flat, and packed up my life in Barcelona. I moved back home a week later. 

I shifted back into my parents' house while I looked for a job elsewhere. I lived a terribly dull life for 8 months. I never got the man out of my head. I tried not to romanticize about him, but I couldn't help it. As much as I tried to solve the mystery of the man, I never could. I came up with all sorts of ridiculous scenarios in my head as to what could have happened with him, but they never sufficed. As much as I tried to forget the man, something would remind me of Barcelona, and I'd start once more. 

I live in Naples now, teaching English lit a private school. Life's great, I suppose. Husband, dog, baby. But sometimes, I can't sleep at night. I'll dream of a café, and that wakes me up in a cold sweat. I don't observe people anymore. I get uncomfortable when I see someone sitting alone. I choose the sunniest spots in gardens. And I am always armed with a good book. But I never read mystery novels. 

The man in shadow has left a bitter taste in my mouth. A shadow is a projection of something real. But I've never been able to figure out the tangible truth about the man. His identity to me is only a shadow. It's always haunted me. I hate that. 

I purposely live like an open book now. I tell my friends and colleagues all about my life. I tell my students stories about myself. I don't lie to my husband, either. I don't want any mystery about who I am. I dislike shadows. One shadow has mystified me ever since I left Barcelona, and I don't want any more. Not even my own.