Six
Avory
That familiar and comforting scent drifts under my door and into my room, causing my eyes to flicker awake. This scent only appears maybe thrice a year at best, but it means that Marcus is cooking.
Marcus is cooking his signature breakfast, which he claims he created yet everyone has made this at some point, but somehow, he makes it taste so much better than everyone else’s.
This scent is more than convincing enough to get me out of bed so early on a Saturday, to put on the first shirt I can get my hands on and throw my hair up into the messiest half up half down style. Loose strands tickle my neck as I make my way out of my bedroom, leaving my curtain closed and bed a mess.
“Good morning, bud! Could you smell it?”
Marcus swings round with a spatula in hand and a toothy grin surrounded by his thick stubble, which tells me he has already had two coffees and didn’t think to shave this morning.
I pull out the stool by the island and sit, my face in my hands and elbows on the cooling marble.
“Of course, I could smell it! What makes you grace this day with your glorious breakfast then?”
“It’s our first gig in Tetherton tonight! Not only one more place which we can officially tick off to say we have performed in, but with this Farewell to Summer Nights only weeks away now, this is a great chance to convince them to give us a place, anything to perform there!”
He places a plate between my elbows as the toaster pops two bagels into the air, both toppling over the edge and onto the counter.
“That’s right, I need to get some practice in today.”
Marcus throws the bagels onto my plate and slides across the sriracha sauce, the sauce which follows us everywhere we go. It has a powerful punch yet has hints of garlic which pair perfectly. Marcus has always taught me to lather anything I eat with this sauce; I love it but not as much as he does.
“I’m going to watch the shop for the day so you can rehearse downstairs.”
“Are you sure? I can always rehearse this evening before we go?”
Marcus bends down and peers into the oven, cheers to himself and pulls out a tray of the crispiest, greasiest bacon known to man. He spins a pair of tongs around his finger as he layers half of the bacon onto my bagel and the other half onto his, which I didn’t even notice he has been assembling as I’ve been too busy salivating.
“Yes, I’m sure. Avory, I want you to focus on you for a change. Focus on your rehearsals, it’s not like we’re the busiest shop in town, like ever.”
He is right, our shop has always been like an abandoned saloon where you watch the doors swinging in the wind and the tumbleweed rolling by. It’s just extra income for us and if we find the right clientele, then it’s a massive help.
I hear sizzling in the frying pan and try my best to glance around Marcus’ hefty figure. “Hey Marc, are they runny?”
Marcus turns back and winks at me as he lifts the pan to show me. “I don’t know Avory; will I get hit on tonight?”
Yes. Always yes. We both smirk to ourselves as he carefully places an egg on each of our bagels, trying his absolute hardest not to burst the yolk because the mess this breakfast makes is the best part of it all. I pinch the edge of the empty bagel half to place on top before Marcus smacks my hand.
“How dare you think that this masterpiece of a breakfast is done? To think I sit here and call you my nephew.”
He, very dramatically, turns his head away from me, making his way into the fridge and commencing the worst fake crying I have ever heard. I struggle to hold back my laughter because that would just make this performance even harder to handle.
After many sniffles and wiping of his own tears, Marcus emerges from the fridge with two bright orange squares in his hand. The cheese. Not just any cheese, the rubbery orange squares which taste so good, yet you could ask me where it originated or what it was made from, but I would have no clue.
“Your cheese, my good sir.”
Marcus rips apart the plastic wrap and places the cheese, finishing it all off with my sriracha covered top.
“Ah yes! Thank you, dear chef!”
Marcus makes his way to the sofa, patting my back on the way as I get up and follow. We mindlessly scroll through whatever available TV channels there are before settling on a rock radio to serenade our digging in.
The crunch of the toasted bagel; the crispy bacon, the rich and dripping yolk, the gluey texture of cheese on my teeth, finishing with the warming bite of the sriracha – it’s all too much yet the perfect breakfast.
So many people would say they’ve eaten this before, or that it wasn’t at all anything special, but it is something special for Marcus and me. This is our breakfast for whenever we needed it. Every bite reigned a sense of comfort over me, it brought me back to being sat at Marcus’ dining table, ten-years-old and having no clue why I was suddenly living with my uncle.
Well, I knew full well why I had to leave what I had always known as home, but as the years went on, my understanding grew stronger, clearer. I understand now but back then, the confusion was too much.
I barely knew anything about my uncle because of his get up and go lifestyle, but all I knew and still know was that he made the most amazing breakfast bagels. So, that’s what Marcus did. For so long, he made these bagels whenever he had the chance and would sit with me, chat with me, bond with me even if he didn’t realise it.
He may have never planned to have me around for as long as I have been, but it’s clear that we are both forever grateful for each other, for moments like this.
Marcus’ eyes roll back as he finishes his last bite, moaning his appreciation for his own cooking as he swallows. He grabs both my cheeks and squeezes my cheeks inwards to my lip.
“Right, I’m off to the shop! Go and rehearse, do not worry about anything else! I’ll see you tonight, Bright Lights debut in Tetherton!”
Our first show, wherever we perform, is always unpredictable with how it will be received, but Tetherton loved us. There have been times in the past where people don’t understand our style of music or just blatantly don’t like us, but those feelings were not welcome in the crowds we faced last night.
Marcus massively underestimated the bar that we played at, because this wasn’t a few people using dancing as an excuse to disguise their stumbling, these crowds had solely come out to see this new band that had arrived. This was one of the biggest bars in Tetherton, and one of our biggest turn outs, too.
After every song we played, the people would applaud, cheer, beg for more, people actually danced with their partners or their friends, hand in hand and their feet in the air more than on the floor.
We were surprised with round after round of pints to shots from the ecstatic faces that met us afterwards, and the throbbing aches rippling from my temples to every muscle in my body is the reminder of that. It’s always worth it, though.
The sheer number of questions and wonderings bubble through my skull, the tipsy voices who asked them echoing so much louder than they ever did last night. Women latching themselves to Marcus’ arm flash whenever I close my eyes, yet he always ends the night alone.
His tactic: slide over a glass of something fancy and then slip away when they’re too busy indulging, and it somehow always works. He always jokes that while he could definitely do with some fun, he can’t be bothered to make her breakfast in bed the next day. I’m completely convinced that it’s never a joke. Thrice a year I get breakfast bagels, let alone the sheer number of women who are attracted to Marcus getting breakfast, too.
My eyes remain shut as I bash my hand across the side table, searching for my phone or a cable which would lead to my phone – nothing. My eyes peel themselves open to be met with the blonde glaze of sunlight that has cast itself over my bedroom. The throbbing in my head growing restless as I find my phone on the floor.
Nearly midday.
I struggle to even remember what time we got home last night, or how we got home, or if Marcus even got home since silence swamps the flat.
I haul myself out of bed and dare to look in the mirror to see what remains of me, and surprisingly, everything seems fine except for my eyeliner smudging across my temples and a hair tie gripping for dear life to the smallest amount of hair, a kink remaining where it was originally wrapped around.
I peer at the ajar bathroom door, and as if it’s my calling, I decide a shower is needed more than anything else. The invasive overhead lighting displays the true state of myself, and as I strip the little clothing I went to bed in, I climb in and under the rainfall shower head.
The hot water runs along every arch and bend of my body, the scent of stereotypical, masculine musk overwhelming the bathroom is just what I needed. My knots and waves fall forward as I lean on the wall, the heat hopefully washing away every piece of evidence of last night, except for the memories of it all.
My hair dries with its natural waves and curls exactly where they need to be, my ripped jeans sit snug and my hoodie buries me, grazing my thighs in length. My chain wraps around my neck and my black studs stand out against my porcelain skin. I pull my lower eyelid down slightly, the left and then the right, and brush along my water lines with my blunting eyeliner, smudging it ever so slightly.
You would never know that my mind was pulsating with waves of tension and desperation for water and painkillers. While my mind may be screaming for an oasis in this desert of pain, I know exactly what I am craving, and I know that Marcus will need it, too, if he’s as bad as me. Coffee.
I tiptoe out of my room and into the flat, my eyes darting around in an attempt to find a groaning, moaning, hunched over man with eye bags so heavy, they will be practically dragging across the floor. Nothing.
I proceed further, with caution, into the room and see Marcus’ door shut with no light trying to creep in from underneath. I hold my breath as I approach the door and gently knock three times, as you don’t ever want to be the person that rips Marcus Bright out of bed on a good day, let alone when he’s nursing a debut gig hangover. A low grumble responds to my knocking, yet the door never opens.
“Morning, Marc! I can assume we’re feeling the same way this morning. As merry as ever?”
The grumbling turns muffled as I can imagine Marcus burying his head into his pillow.
“I’m going to pop out and get this new miracle hangover cure that’s just come out, it’s called coffee. Would you like—”
Marcus’s voice suddenly wakes from its hibernation as he cut me off. “PLEASE!”
“I assume the usual. I’ll be back soon, take it easy!”
I laugh to myself as the grumbling continues from the darker side of the door.
The midday sun strokes my skin with its warming touch as the seaside breeze then cools me down, that salty bite to it becoming a new comfort. Having walked the street the other night, I find a new confidence building with Tetherton and with where to look for freshly brewed coffee.
I know that Marcus is going to need something strong, and I am going to need something iced, so with that I begin my search through every shop window and every posted menu until I find myself outside of an emerald building with golden accents along the door and windows.
Wall height windows grace the front of the building, allowing a cascade of natural sunlight to glow against the hanging macramé plant pots, low hanging lights and art framed along the walls.
A sign shaped like a cloud hangs above the front door, cursive writing filling every curve and reading ‘Sombre’s Café’, in an exaggerated cursive style and once again, gold accents surrounding every letter. A café would be a good start for coffee.
The front door causes a ringing to resonate through the café, and one strong wave of coffee, cake and pastries stimulates my senses. The café is small, cosy and has an earthy theme throughout with plants, artwork and trinkets dotting over all its surfaces. A couple of bamboo tables tuck themselves away from the natural sun behind a half wall while the counter sits snug in the corner closest to the door.
I feel myself salivate as I linger over the cake and pastry counter, maybe I could get us some cake on the way out. The menu hangs above the back bench, the same cursive writing outside filling the blackboards with the overwhelming number of options for drinks.
While I prepare myself with Marcus’ order – a full fat cow’s milk latte with three shots of dark roasted coffee – I begin to plan my order, and my mind goes straight for the hazelnut syrup that Sombre’s Café has to offer – a large, iced oat milk latte with hazelnut syrup, two shots. That’s it.
I approach the counter before noticing the emptiness of the café compared to the bustling streets outside. I use the time it takes for someone to come around and serve me as time to observe the people of Tetherton throughout their daily lives on this Saturday afternoon, but it seems I couldn’t observe for long as someone turns up without me noticing.
“Hi there, have you been waiting long? I just had to pop out the back to get some more milk. What can I get you today?”
I bring myself back into the café and out of the lives of the random people walking by, and turn to face the soft, sweet voice addressing me.
Damn, this barista is cute.