I Have A Fantasy

I have a fantasy that I would open a bakery-book-café.

It is pretty and cosy, lit with golden lights, hugged with just the right amount of warmth, and can occupy no more than 10 tables. There’s an old shiny gramophone decorating a long wooden three-legged table in one corner. The wall adjacent to it is one for the Polaroids and Post-its. The blackboard on the wooden canvas stand stands outside the glass door. Decorated with little doodles of coffee and cakes by the 11-year-old son of my barista, it reads:

Today’s Specials!

Chocolate Cinnamon Roll

Red Velvet Cupcakes

Chocolate Mudcake

Banana Spiced Bread

White Mocha

And I sit in the narrow passageway between the café and bookstore, scented with a mix of coffee, vanilla, fresh bread, books, and sometimes rain. I adore all the seasons: Winter brings people in cashmere coats and long boots looking for a hot drink; Summer blurs my vision, and people entering through the door look like a painting of sunshine melting into watercolours; Autumn is the joy in me where everything fits in like a puzzle and the colours blend in perfectly with the café; Spring decorates the entrance with bright green leaves and vines and purple-pink flowers. Perhaps the only thing that can combat the charm of these inanimate things is the animate ones—people.

The place is not very crowded; it has the perfect volume and comfort. I sit in peace, so used to this atmosphere, I can read people like books while they are in their own little worlds like I am. An elderly couple has come for the first time here. They read their books in complete silence that only breaks when they have something to share from each one’s books and give each other genuine smiles and shoulder taps. They teach me purity in love that comes and goes throughout life and finally finds itself in a respectful understanding between two people who have seen those ups and downs together for the longest time. A group of weary students comes in at

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5 in the evening after college. The girls’ faded lipstick and the boys’ wrinkled shirts show they had a very long day. Nevertheless, they joke around with each other and bicker about what to order while my waitress stands patiently beside their table. One of the girls passes by me into the bookstore, giving off a faint flowery scent. It might be her cologne, or maybe shampoo. Just then, I hear a hearty laugh and turn my head toward the source to find a familiar face of a lovely young woman. She always laughs like that—throwing her head back, laughing with all her heart. And the lovely young man sitting opposite her looks at her with ultimate fondness in his eyes and smile. When she glances at him looking at her, they both blush an awkward, adorable red. They’re in love. They have been in love for two years now. They come here every Friday after work and talk and laugh like there’s no one else at that moment. Maybe one of these Fridays, he’d get on his knees and asks her, “Marry me.” And there’s this one particular girl who comes here every day and is as present in this place as me. She sits in her school uniform and writes and writes and writes. Maybe she’s writing in her diary, or perhaps a poem or a book, and when she gives a rewarding smile and leans back into her chair, I’d know that she had achieved whatever she wanted to write. Sometimes she comes in her pyjamas in the night before closing hours and treats herself to a cup of hot chocolate. She is me when I was 17.

This place is my heaven and serenity, my real and fantasy, and my heart. I sit comfortably in my rocking chair with my ginger cat purring lazily in my lap. I close my eyes to the sounds of little giggles and chatters, wind-chimes ringing whenever the door opens, the clatter of cups, plates, and coffee machines, the delicate jazz and blues playing in the café, the turning of pages in the bookstore; I close my eyes to the smell of bakery and books. I’m so peaceful that I don’t even know when the “Closed” sign is hung. Life is good. Life is nice and simple in fantasy land.