Anonymous

She finds it in the least expected place. Or maybe it’s the most. An innocuous small and hard surface under the wrought iron chair in a hole in the wall café. Her heel hits it as a particle from the caramel syrup in her latte passes unexpectedly through her lips. The sudden texture change startles her, her foot fidgets and instead of space, she meets solid matter. She looks under her seat to discover a brown leather-bound journal with bronze corner caps at the top and bottom of the book flaps. There is a stamped seal on the top left corner, a wolf’s head surrounded by ivy on both sides. It looks expensive and feels heavy, which is odd for a little notebook. She remembers that this table was empty when she came in, it always is at 10 pm on a school night. You would expect this café to be filled with hipsters and alt teenagers with its gothic architecture and mismatching flatware. But it seemed to be noticeable only to those who needed a break. Only to those who valued the calm silence displaced by ripples of quiet sips and the slightest clinking of silverware cutting into savory shepherd’s pie or a sweet muffin dancing through the air. She knows this table as her table, so it surprises her when she finds a little brown book under her chair. She places it on the table next to her black teacup with a golden rim that sat atop an antique-looking rose-designed saucer. The singular hooked clasp sits innocently, unguarded and stationary, waiting. She looks up and around to see if anyone also recognizes the peculiar item, only to realize she is alone except for the 2 baristas who are sitting in the corner, hunched over laptops and whispering about what seems to be statistics homework…ugh.

No one else sees her discovery. So, she does what every curious person would do, she opens Pandora’s box. And to her amazement, there sits a check for $20,000 and 0 cents, written to her…and signed Anonymous. She places the check down calmly, the only indication of surprise presenting as a raised eyebrow and the rapid pattering of her heart. The journal is empty, its pages unlined. The paper feels rustic, yet smooth. Perfect for sketching, she ponders. Her mind returns to the check sitting next to her cooling latte. The calligraphy is perfectly spaced, its loops fully proportionate with the curves and straight lines. The hand who wrote this was confident. She wonders how cashing a check written by an anonymous donor would go down as she slowly finishes her drink. The three gulps the drink takes provide three shutters of thoughts to flow through her mind.

This is a prank.

But how do they know my name?

…Is this the answer?

Her job was sitting at home looking at a blank page hoping for the curser to produce letters on its own. She couldn’t find her muse. She ran to meet her, but the wave she rode on passed by and crashed onto the shore, never to resurface. Not in the way she first saw her. And so, she began patronizing a small café, hoping to find a new character to detail, a new pot to personify, even an ad for job openings part-time. Her savings were running low, her lease almost finished, and her will to live…slowly draining from her like an apple whose moisture is evaporating whilst sitting forgotten on a counter. She slowly gathers her effects, which was originally a small black handbag, but now including a leather journal, and the used teacup and saucer “set”. Her body so used to the path it takes to deposit the dishes every night, it autopilots to the counter; even the clink of porcelain against wood does nothing to the slight fog over her eyes as she thinks of all the possibilities this check could bring. A smile slowly forms on her face as she thinks of the one place, she always felt was home despite never smelling its air nor feeling its breeze against her cheek. She thought of the Cliffs of Moher, where she could shout greetings to every morning. The meadows and plains she could simply sit in and feel the sun’s warmth as it passed over her. The coastline of an island so full of culture and heritage. It was in her blood after all.

As she exited the café, turning left and walking towards her apartment with a gentle lilt and sway in her step, she never noticed someone sitting across the street at a bus stop. It wouldn’t have been too odd, if not for the fact that the bus had been rerouted permanently from that corner two months ago. They sat on the bench in a green peacoat, wearing smart leather boots and dark blue skinny jeans, their face obscured by a black beanie and houndstooth infinity scarf. Their cornflower-blue eyes watched her leave until she disappeared into the darkness. When they could no longer spot her, they pulled out a little black book and a green fountain pen. With a buoyant stroke, they crossed her name from a list of people written in black against an off-white page. With a lilting chuckle full of warmth and anticipation, they turned right and walked until they too, disappeared into the night.