It’s never truly night here. The only days we have in this salon are days of sunlight and days of lamplight. And the salon’s guests, like its fruit tarts and its chocolate cakes, are of a different flavour each day.
Some talk in human languages. Some growl. Some cackle like hens. And some just sit back and dream.
Every day there are guests coming in. Strangers from the dead worlds and the dreamlands. Girls with animal heads. A man with his head split open; clouds erupting from the gash. Dogs that talk like sugar aunties.
They come and they come and….We never see them leave. Each day the salon looks bigger, but at the same time, it looks exactly the same. There’s always enough space in the salon. Always enough space, although nothing ever changes.
We, like most guests, have known the salon forever. Or at least… that’s how it seems. This place is like an old friend. “I must’ve been here once,” we’ll say, scratching our chins like armchair philosophers. Maybe we’ve never been here physically. Maybe we’ve just dreamt about this place.
We can’t quite remember its real name… Because of its luminance and warmth, we named it The Solar Salon. Its name, however, is mainly derived from the tiny solar system dangling from the ceiling of the salon. It’s made out of paper. The artist unknown to us. Dangling from spider silk strings, planets shimmer, emitting a violet glow.
Time, that wicked little thing, has left through the front door. And now we are here, forever ordering coffee, biscuit cakes and raspberry tarts; forever wondering if it’s finally time to leave.
“Not yet,” we’ll tell each other again and again. There’s always something to see here. Always something to whisper about. At the moment, we’re whispering about the hostess. The Solar Salon has but one hostess. It does not need another: she is fast; she never drops her platters. Slightly stooped, she carries everything on her back.
That lazy eye of hers makes her unsightly. And yet, she has the warmest smile we’ve ever seen. Occasionally, she’ll beam at us and ask us questions. She’ll take care of us like the mother we never had. She knows all of our names.
Whenever we see her hurrying to and from the kitchen, we can’t help but notice something forlorn about her smile. Something sad she buries within herself.
Dido is her name. She seems as much a part of our childhood as the salon is, though she claims never to have seen us before last Sunday. When she says this, she laughs, winking as though we’re old friends.
We look forward to her kind words, more than we look forward to our raspberry cakes and caramel balls. Once every hour, the voice of her husband erupts from the kitchen, hot like a solar flare.
Larry Sleezer. He’s quite the perfectionist and unfortunately for him, everything his wife does is wrong. It damages his heart. “I’m sorry about my wife,” he’ll tell us privately, swooping down to correct the tealeaves in our cups with his sweaty fingers. “Two left feet she has, that woman. But alas, she works hard.”
Sleezer is the chef. As a couple, they own the place. Sometimes, we notice him surveying us, eyes narrowing, his moist moustache twitching. “She keeps the show running,” he’ll say whenever his wife bumps into something, grimacing when he says this. “The pathway is too narrow for her.”
He doesn’t accommodate her, not one bit, but he seems fond of her in his own way. To him, she’s a well-oiled device, a good coffee machine. We’ve heard him compare her to one. “Won’t she hear?” we asked him, glancing at where she’s explaining the menu to some newcomers.
“Her?” he says, his pig eyes flickering. “She isn’t sensitive. How can she be with that leathery skin?”
That man’s lack of love is like a ticking time bomb. He doesn’t know, does he? That sooner or later someone’s bound to ignite it.
A young man strides in on a late lamplight afternoon, his face aglow. We crane our necks as he bypasses us. There are smudges on his face, but beneath it all he is bright like a sun. It isn’t his beauty, however, that catches our attention. In spite of his shabby clothing, his tousled hair and his patched-up suitcase, he carries himself like a king.
Even Sleezer leers at him from his place in the kitchen, frowning at the stranger’s breezy smile. The newcomer appears to be in his late twenties. He claims to be a P.H.D. student. We ask what his research project is about and his eyes sparkle: “the universe,” he says it as though he’s telling us a secret. “I’m redesigning it.”
“With a subject like that you’ll never graduate.”
“I have time.” He glances at the frozen clock on the wall, smirking as he does so. There’s a mole above the right corner of his mouth, and dimples on his cheeks.
“It’s too big.”
“Just big enough for me.”
Arrogance! That’s what it is. We turn around, muttering amongst ourselves. An entire universe? Just big enough for him?
We are intent on ignoring him forever and yet, five minutes later, we’re looking over our shoulders again (we can’t help it). A soft glow surrounds his table. A miniature galaxy floats in front of him, having erupted, it seemed, from that suitcase of his. Miniature suns, a planet with rings surrounding it, a big red planet, and a small blue one with green stains—like a cow’s pattern.
“Sir,” Dido has to say it at least three times. He gazes up at her through his tousled curls (they’re walnut brown, almost blonde). Dido stands in front of him, balancing three platters on her arms and hand palms. “May I remind you that we’re in a restaurant?” She’s smiling shyly. “Not a library…Your order?”
“Right!” He nearly knocks over the blue and green planet. Tilting his chin, he peers up at one of the continually changing menus, which Dido nails to the wall each morning. It is risky, ordering something here, because the drinks are addictive. Whatever you order might keep you around forever.
“A glass of water will do,” the young man says.
Dido raises her brows. Sleezer’s moustache twitches.
“Water,” Dido says pointedly. “Water,” we echo. “Water.” Sleezer spits out the word.
“Water,” the young man reiterates. “For clarity of mind.” He is immersed in his work once again. Before she leaves him, Dido points at a particularly large star orbiting a strange red planet. “Amp up the temperature a bit,” she says. “And you might have yourself a planet with liquid water. A habitable one.”
He stares at his miniature galaxy, eyes wide. When she leaves, he casts her a dazed smile. With two scalpels, he augments the star rotating the strange red planet.
Dido lowers the water glass on the edge of his table, averting her eyes from his gaze.
She’s careful not to disrupt his work, not to knock anything over. Before she leaves, he nods at the paper galaxy above their heads.
“You made this?”
Dido stiffens. She nods slowly. “I like to think about what’s out there.”
“Only think?” There is something behind his smile. Something that the rest of us guests do not have. Some sort of happiness that keeps eluding us. No contentment nor fulfilment, but an excitement that comes with endless imagined opportunities, and infinite imagined futures.
That scares us. The future scares us. The only future we consider is the coffee we will order when our current cups are empty.
Dido ambles down the narrow pathways, halting behind the counter, where she crouches down, rummaging in the cupboards. From time to time, she casts him a furtive glance. He winks when he catches her staring, and she turns away quickly, ears pink.
The lamplight day has almost come to an end; the sun outside is as fresh as our orange juice, heralding a bright solar day. Time for another round of coffee. Slowly, we start to merge with our cozy chairs, the humid air swirling around us, smelling of coffee beans.
Dust motes float through the café, lit up by a kaleidoscope of sunrays warming us from outside. That’s when we spot them. Sitting at his table together. Dido has drawn up a chair opposite his, sitting on the edge, as though she’s planning to get up soon and leave. In the soft Spring sunbeams, it is easy to forget her ugliness. In fact, seeing her like this— her face lighting up, enraptured by his miniature universe—some might call her decent-looking. Or cute, in some odd way.
The scientist’s name is Sivren. Dido told us this morning when she brought us our umpteenth cup of coffee.
Sivren Scarlet. He leans forward in his chair, his knee touching hers ever so slightly. She points at the planets, the stars and the black hole he created; the latter of which nearly sucks up her finger.
“Almost lost another one,” she says, wiggling her fingers at him. Notably, the pinkie on her right hand is missing. Cut off, we’ve heard, in an accident involving her husband.
Sleezer said she did it to herself. Dido did not wish to talk about it.
At the moment, the young scientist is giggling. A laugh most men reserve for their wives or girlfriends behind closed doors.
Sleezer makes his way out of the kitchen, prowling towards their table like a shark. Dido stands quickly, smoothing her apron, eyes fluttering nervously. Sivren, however, does not seem fazed.
He takes her hand. Just for a second. Completely unnoticeable to anyone who’s not paying attention. The problem, though, is that everyone is looking.
No, not just looking. Ogling.
We wait, quietly, for the storm that’s about to come. For the twitch of Sleezer’s moustache, the subtle signs of anger he so often exhibits. These signs, though, do not come.
As the sun dawns, the lamplight switches off, though for us—lamp or sun—it makes no difference. In the following days, the scientist’s miniature galaxy expands rapidly. It starts to occupy his entire table. Soon, it might consume the Solar Salon. Consume us.
How exciting. We sip our tea.
Occasionally, we notice Dido bypassing Sivren’s table. Whenever she does this, he looks up, his curls bouncing. And sometimes, he beckons her, smirking, whispering something into her ear that makes her blush.
We decide not to tell Sleezer, reasoning that if we’ll ignore something long enough, it’ll go away on its own.
We take another sip.
There is a tension between those two that lingers. A comfortable tension, natural, like the moon stirring the seas, pushing and pulling.
On a bright lamplight afternoon, the scientist is sweating, trying to fix an error in his miniature galaxy. He’s creating a pattern of stars, reminiscent of a trail of breadcrumbs. Trying to find, in his words: “the solution to everything.”
The solution to the universe. He’s been doing this for days now, hair plastered to his forehead. He starts ordering mint tea instead of water, claiming that it helps him think.
Hands in his hair, he’s truly desperate now, muttering “no, no, no…”
We don’t see her coming. Neither does he. There she is, peering over his shoulder, her brows raised, curious. Chin tilted, she eyes his miniature universe. She carefully puts her tray aside.
We lower our mugs, craning our necks to see what she’s doing. She is pointing at two nearby stars.
“Merge them,” she says. “That should be bright enough.”
He chuckles nervously; his boastful personality has vanished completely. “That’s… surprisingly simple, yes.” He edges closer to her. “You’re good at this.” She chuckles, leaving him to his work before he can say anything else.
It takes him hours to merge the two stars but when he does, the Solar café is cast in a rainbow of colours. Some colours we’ve never even seen before.
The scientist gasps, surrounded by stars and planets. Slowly, enchanted by the phenomenon hovering over the table in front of him, he shrugs on his shabby coat.
The universe seems ten times brighter now. We stare and stare until the scientist opens his suitcase and starts folding the galaxy with its stars and black holes, placing it neatly in his suitcase again. Sivren’s lips quiver: he seems on the verge of tears. “Finally,” he keeps muttering. “Finally!”
At the moment, he’s no longer looking at his project, now safely stowed away. He’s looking at Dido. She’s standing behind the kitchen counter, unable to hide her pride. They smirk at each other. Knowingly. Then Sleezer’s voice booms from the kitchen. He’s giving orders but she doesn’t listen.
“Excuse me,” the scientist says to a group of newcomers, making his way through the queue. “Excuse me, I’ve found it. I’ve found the solution to everything!” That last part is directed at Dido. He throws his arms around her and for a few seconds, they stand there silently.
Sivren lets go abruptly, eyes on the counter, behind which Sleezer is watching them, fuming.
It is entirely silent now but for the clattering of cutlery.
Sivren clears his throat, eyes on Dido.
He says it softly but we all hear him, listening closely to every word he utters. “You’re smarter than most people.” His feet are pointing directly towards her. “Do you actually plan on staying here? Rotting away like them?” He gestures at us. Gosh! Outraged, we glare daggers at him.
Sleezer’s face is so red now it seems to glow. He balls his fists, advancing towards the young scientist who seems so intent on stealing his wife.
“I’ve known this place all my life,” Dido responds, her voice tender. “I know the pots and pans and the people know me— I’ve known my husband for ten years.”
“But are you happy with him? Are you happy here?”
Dido goes quiet. We all do. Is she happy here? Are we happy here? We look around the salon. It’s so familiar to us, all of its nooks and crevices … We belong here just as much as Dido does. We’ve never even considered leaving.
Dido says something but no matter how much we try to eavesdrop, we cannot hear her.
Sivren shakes his head. “Why not?” we hear him say, a bit louder—it seems—than intended. “What keeps you here?” he’s pleading with her, his thick eyebrows raised. “You could be so much more.”
So much more? Her? What is he even thinking?
“I’m needed here,” she says, apparently having the exact same thought as us.
And she’s right. She is needed here. We need her and Sleezer needs her. Like one might need a good frying pan or a well-functioning lamp.
“It wouldn’t be fair if I left.” Dido grimaces at us, apologetically. We nod in agreement. No hostess can replace Dido, who knows us like a mother knows her children. She turns on her heels, moving in the direction of the kitchen, leaving her scientist standing near the entrance, suitcase at his feet. Finally, he picks up his suitcase, opening the door.
That catches our attention. Few people have tried to leave this place. Dido waves at him, eyes downcast.
He waits for her in front of the café, inhaling the colours of Spring. It is getting dark outside and he keeps glancing at the window, shivering slightly in his shabby coat. The sun is setting. The blossom trees are poppy red. Finally, the lanterns and lamps switch on.
He stands there all alone, shoulders slumped. Behind the counter, Dido reaches for her coat. Gingerly, as though she fears it might bite her.
Her hand hovers in the air, hesitant, and then she lowers it again.
It’s getting late and the scientist leaves. Gradually, he melts into the horizon, nothing more now than a tiny black dot on the sky’s canvas.
Sleezer is humming in the kitchen and Dido is frozen in place, like a family heirloom. She belongs here: she knows that better than we do. Who else is supposed to make us coffee, attend to our needs, all the while carrying ten plates and the heavy weight of Sleezer’s expectations?
Dido’s eyes are red: she’s half asleep behind the counter. She keeps studying the menu, erasing dishes and rewriting them. From time to time, she rubs her eyes with the blue napkin she keeps in her pocket.
Alas, work has to be done.
“The show must go on!” Sleezer says in a raspy tone, clapping his hands, gripping Dido’s shoulder, his nails digging into her skin. She goes back to work. We go back to sipping our tea. Business goes on as usual and we soon forget about the scientist altogether. We forget all about that strange young man who claimed to have found the solution to everything. And we forget that there was someone once, in a faraway past, who loved Dido. We don’t expect to see him again, his presence fading to black… but then we spot him. Three years later. Not physically: in a newspaper. A stack of them arrives at the Solar Salon each week. And there he is on this glowing morning. Grinning on the front page.
Sivren Scarlet, Academic Prodigy, it read, Out There Saving The World. Beloved by academies, universities and politicians everywhere. He’s even received marriage proposals from two renowned vampire princesses, which he politely declined.
“None of them good enough for him,” we scoff. We are right about him in that regard at least. Still, we cannot help shaking our heads as we read the news, refusing to believe that this oddball didn’t end up on the streets, as we’d initially expected.
That bastard.
Dido does not read the article. The moment her eyes land on his picture, she hastily stows it away.
Then the door opens and the sun walks in. No, not the sun. A handsome man dressed in gold and dark red, a cape draped over his shoulders, stitched with a pattern of shimmering stars.
Ears pink, he seems in quite a hurry, slamming the door behind him.
We recognize the mole on his left cheek, and his walnut brown curls, now long and lustrous. He looks around the Solar Salon and his lips curl into a smile. “This place,” he mutters, with the air of someone lifted out of a daydream. “I can’t believe I’ve found it again.”
Dido beams at him from behind the counter, where she’s been revising the menu. They stare at each other. His suitcase falls down, clicks open, a sea of papers sliding out. Sivren, however, neither seems to notice nor care.
We’ve never seen a smile like that on Dido’s face. “Can I help you?” She fumbles with her bib, her smile broadening when she adds: “sir.”
“I remember you,” he mutters. He stands closer to her, oblivious to our silent, judging faces.
A jingle from the kitchen. “Didooo,” Sleezer’s voice cuts through the air. “You still haven’t sliced those potatoes—the food is getting cold, Didooo.”
Dido doesn’t listen: she’s beaming at Sivren Scarlet, hands folded in front of her bib.
“I saw you—” Her cheeks are red. “—in the papers. You look…”
Rich? Famous? Slightly ridiculous?
“Happy,” she says finally.
“I wondered what you were up to.” His eyes twinkle. Around them, the Solar Salon falls silent. We don’t even bother to conceal our interest anymore.
“I can’t believe you’re still here,” Sivren tells her, casting a furtive glance at Sleezer, whose head pops out of the kitchen, steam erupting from his mouth.
There’s something melancholic about Sivren’s voice when he continues: “my offer still stands.”
Dido is silent. The salon is silent. We spit out our tea. What would he—having made such a name for himself—want to do with her?
“Why me?” Dido says, clearly thinking the same.
He averts his eyes from hers, the corners of his mouth drooping. “I hoped you’d changed your mind.”
The two of them look at each other, each having grown older. There are streaks of grey in Dido’s hair, and a slight crease has appeared between Sivren’s brows.
At the same time, however, only one of them has truly changed.
Dido glances around the salon, as though seeing it for the first time. She has been here longer than we have. Some guests claim to have known her in her early twenties. That was fifteen years ago.
“I’ve been here all my life,” she says.
And it’s true. The restaurant has changed Dido and the spark she once had—supposedly—in those misty eyes of her. She wed Sleezer at twenty-one and from that moment onwards, she’d rapidly grown older, growing out of the skirts and sunflower bibs that marked her girlhood.
Dido has never been beautiful, but over the years she’s become invisible, now perceived solely as a hostess, not a woman.
Until now.
“I’m needed here.” Her voice quakes as she says this.
Sivren nods. He leans into her, whispering something. Two words. Take care.
The young scientist does not wait around this time. He walks away, slowly but steadily, exiting the restaurant.
We watch him through the rain splattered window. We watch the wind tousle his walnut brown hair.
Bang!
The door opens again and Dido pelts out of the salon, her bib whipping. She calls out to him. We can’t quite hear what she says. Sivren whips around, dark eyebrows raised, a smile strong as the birth of a star.
In a few strides, Dido is standing in front of him. He doesn’t move, his eyes lingering on her lips. Then, as though she’s moved by a magnetic force, she wraps her arms around him, kissing him full on the mouth.
We can’t stop looking: it’s a passionate kiss. His hands are on her waist, pulling her close. Her fingers grasp his hair. Outside, it starts to drizzle. The sun is almost gone now. The trees lining the glade are swaying and a path cuts straight through them. The sun stands at the end of that red clay path, waiting patiently for the two silhouettes kissing among the trees.
A soft rainbow decorates the sky. Sivren laughs. His features are augmented by the sunbeams, as though they’re under a magnifying glass.
They break loose, glowing together, their edges softened by the evening light.
Behind the counter, Sleezer grasps the menu, his knuckles white. “Why her?” he utters finally. “She’s already old. Ugly. Nothing more than a hostess and waitress. Nothing more than… my wife.”
We do not answer him, taking a bite of our shroom cakes.
Now, as we watch Dido, we can’t help but disagree with Sleezer’s words. There’s something about her, the springy gait with which she walks, arm in arm with her scientist. There’s a desire for life in those footsteps, something that hadn’t been there before. Something that had, perhaps, been covered up in this dusty restaurant. This strange place removed from space and time.
The two of them blend with the colours of the world, the sky in front of them bypassing pink and turning orange.
We won’t see them again. They’ll never come back. That thought pleases us. We sink lower into our chairs.
Something flourishes inside our chests, like the first tulips opening. An unfamiliar desire to get out of our chairs, barge through the door and explore the world.
We repress the feeling, laughing it off. It’s quite uncomfortable really…. That silly little thing called desire. We decide to order another cup of tea, peering outside and discerning the two silhouettes on the horizon, merging into each other, consumed by the red-rimmed clouds.
Is that what happiness looks like?
We shake our heads, forgetting all about adventure. Does this salon have a hostess? Someone is supposed to bring us tea.
Janna de Graaf is a 24-year-old writer and poet from The Netherlands. In her work, she likes to explore the liminal spaces between the real and the surreal. Previously, she has been published in The Echo, SOUP and Phoenix.
High Horse 