Olive’s Cafe

I was told to be here ten minutes ago. The last time I was here it did not end well. 

It’s not yet noon and my clothes are already covered in stains. Basic hygiene is practically impossible these days, honestly who has the time for such luxuries? I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet. The taste of coffee and leftover pizza both linger on my tongue, an unwelcome reminder that I also need to grocery shop. I have so much to do. I need to take a shower. I need to do the dishes. I really can’t forget to switch the laundry (again). The list is never ending. Anxiety creeps into my mind like a pesky little trash panda sneaking into an overflowing garbage can. I’m too busy to be here, but I make time. I always do. The air is thick and I can feel the sweat on my lip. I squint at the sweltering sun and close my eyes, pretending I’m someplace else. I take a deep breath and slap on my best smile before entering Olive’s Cafe. 

I’m greeted by a girl who looks far too young to be working here. Actually, she was here the last time, too. I could never forget a face. She looks like my mother, it’s uncanny. 

"Hello! Welcome to Olive's cafe! Would you like to sit inside or outside?" the girl playfully asks.

I hadn't thought of it before. I shrug a sunburnt shoulder while contemplating. 

"Hmmmm, maybe inside? It's pretty hot out today."

She stares blankly as if she were a robot and my answer does not compute. 

"Say outside," she whispers.

I blink, already feeling annoyed. I clear my throat and try again. "It's such a lovely day, do you have any outside seating?"

She squeals and shows me to the only picnic table in the back. The rough wood feels like sandpaper against my bare legs. I play tug of war with the conflicting feelings I have about Olive’s Cafe. I don’t want to be here, but I know that one day it will be gone, and I’ll never have the chance to be here again.

"What can I get you?" she asks.

"I'm not sure, do you have a menu?" I respond. 

She looks at me as if I had asked for a million dollars and a golden goose. She twirls her long curls around her finger and twists her mouth to the side. "Uhm, I'm sorry, but we don't have menus here. But you can order anything you want. Seriously, like, ANYTHING!" 

My eyebrows raise in shock and delight. "Okay, I'll take a coffee with oat milk and a slice of pie, please," I say with a grin. 

She sucks air through her teeth as her face turns sour. She quickly shakes her head and says, "Oooohhh, I'm SO sorry, but we don't have pie or coffee. Actually, we don't have any food here." 

“No food at a cafe?” I gape. “I guess I’ll have to go someplace else.” 

I stand up, readying myself to make a dramatic exit, knowing full well I won't actually leave. Not that she would let me, anyway.

“Wait!” She shrieks. “We actually do have food. I’ll be right back with your coffee and pie.”

She disappears for a moment and I check the time on my phone. I find myself doom scrolling to escape this multiverse I've found myself in. I wipe away the sweat from my lip.

The waitress arrives back to the table. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and smiles brightly at me. “Hi, my name is Olive. Welcome. What can I get for you?

My brows knit together. I can’t tell if she’s joking. I look around and notice I'm still the only customer here.

“I ordered the coffee and pie, remember?” 

She slaps her forehead and giggles.

“Oh yeah, sorry about that. I’ll be right back.” She disappears again.

I hear muffled voices and whispers. The clinking of pots and pans and running water.

I can’t forget to change the laundry. 

The Waitress returns holding a tray. Her grip is unsteady and I hold my breath, anticipating that she might drop it. She sets the tray on the table and places a muddied coffee in front of me as well as a bowl of some unknown substance. It looks inedible and I cringe at the sight. 

“I ordered a pie,” I say. Perhaps she made a mistake.

“We don’t have pie. This is mushroom soup, it’s really good,” she reassures me.

She stares at me expectantly. I twirl it around, lifting a spoonful to my nose. It smells earthy and pungent. I can’t eat this. If this were any other restaurant I might have said ‘thank you' and appeased my inner people pleaser by eating it. But not here. I can’t expect to teach my daughters autonomy if I don’t practice saying ‘no.’ 

“I’ll just have the coffee, but thank you,” I say.

“Try it,” she whispers.

“No, thank you,” I say confidently. 

“Just try it!” she says loudly. 

I know she won’t leave until I’ve tried it. She did this the last time. 

I bring the spoon to my mouth and pretend to take a bite. She doesn’t seem to catch my sneaky ruse. 

“Mmmm.” I lick my lips and smile. This pleases her. 

“Pie!” a small voice calls from far away. The waitress looks at me, eyes sparkling with excitement. 

“I guess the chef did make pie, I’ll be right back.” She saunters off.

I look around, making sure no one is here to see as I dump the bowl of soup onto the ground. She returns a moment later, cupping her hands together like a child holding a frog. 

“Chocolate pie,” she beams as she throws the deconstructed pie onto the table without a plate or silverware. It splatters on my already dirty clothes. The laundry, I remind myself. I look at her, shocked and horrified. 

“Where is my plate?” I ask.

“Sorry, all the plates are dirty. The chef is washing them now.”

“I would like to speak to your chef.” I stand up and walk toward the kitchen. The waitress follows close behind me. The kitchen is disgusting. The sink is filled with dirty water and mildew. Plates are stacked to the side. The chef struggles to wash the dishes, frantically throwing around pots and pans. Her hair is in a long braid, she turns around and I’m surprised to see that she looks even younger than the waitress. 

“Hi,” she says casually.

“I was just served chocolate pie without a plate or silverware by this waitress.” I sound like a tattling child.

The chef ignores me and begins to play in the dirty water. She’s babbling incoherently to herself and I don’t understand what she’s saying. The waitress walks to the sink and grabs a pink bowl.

The chef looks at her, eyes angry and wild. “That’s mine!” She grabs the bowl from the waitress.

The waitress yanks it from her hands with such force that the chef tumbles to the ground.

The chef rolls around on the ground like a toddler having a tantrum.

She is a toddler having a tantrum.

“Mama, can we go inside? I’m hungry," says Olive, holding her tiny tummy. 

I clean up the mud kitchen, picnic table, and toys, readying the space for tomorrow morning's game of mud pie cafe. I scoop up my toddler and carry her inside for a much-needed nap.

I can finally switch the laundry.