None of the characters in this story is a real person, other than the pianist.
“I can’t believe you,” Cat said, reaching across the table in the cafe booth, pointing to something on her phone.
“What?” said Mike, face fallen.
“Don’t play dumb.”
She turned her phone to him. It was a page from his web site, titled The End. He scrolled through it with his finger.
“What?”
“You turned me into a character in one of your stupid short stories.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Of course you did. It is one of our arguments turned into some sort of melancholy self-referential short story.”
“No it isn’t,” said Mike emphatically, flipping the screen to scan the text. “Okay, it covers some of the same ground as we have. But that doesn’t mean it is our conversation. It is just words on a page.”
“It’s not just the subject conversation, Mike. It’s the way this ‘Caroline’ character is described. It’s me, or some version of me,” she said, pointing as she fell back in her seat blowing some hair from her face. “She even does that.”
“Well, yes, she does do that. But, that does not mean it’s you. It’s just one of the thinly-drawn characters I use.”
Cat’s face dropped at that, sinking back into her seat and closing her eyes to contain her anger. He must be getting through with this, thought Mike, so he continued.
“‘Write what you know,’ they say. And that’s what I’ve done. That does not mean anyone is anyone in the story. Even the character who is like me is not me.” He leaned forward sure his point was now taken. “I mean, he is a complete idiot.”
But she did not meet him in the middle despite the olive branch. She remained slumped in her seat, arms folded, head down, before her head shot up her eyes fixing him with ferocious energy. He may have misread the situation.
“So that is what you think of me is it? ‘A thinly-drawn character who helps move your story forward’? That is how you see me, is it?”
This was not going as well as he had thought. Stunned, his failure sinking in.
“But it is not you!”
“If it’s not me, then who the fuck is it?” said Cat.
“I…,” he had run out of dialogue.
Mike’s stock main character would start brooding now and give up, thought Cat, reaching forward to turn her coffee cup on the saucer.
“It was clearly over between them,” thought Mike, watching her, picturing himself crushed under the heel of a slow-turning coffee cup.
She was right, he thought. They were trapped in one of his melancholy short stories, and now the end was coming. They were both silent, resigned to their fate.
It was 3.58. The pianist, a bald heavyset man in his 60s, flipped open the lid of the upright piano and ran a few scales.
Mike leant forward. Cat drew her cup to her, nursing it in both hands, bracing herself.
“Here it comes. The ending,” she thought.
“Cat, I’ve been thinking,” began Mike, Cat opening her eyes, horrified at her foresight.
“You’re not serious? This is not one of your miserable stories. This is real life, you can’t just wrap it up when you run out of enthusiasm.”
“Listen to me, I think…”
The clock turned four. The pianist’s left hand began jumping, pounding out a bossa nova rhythm, his feet dancing on the pedals. The Girl from Ipenema.
Nobody can have a break up conversation to this soundtrack, that would be ridiculous. So Mike quickly changed tack, finishing his sentence.
“I think you’re right. I don’t like the way the story ends like that, it’s so abrupt and over the top. I’ll put something in to change it.”
“Good,” said Cat.
She blew some strands of hair from her face, sinking into her cappuccino, her foot swinging. ■