Daydream

By Shira Zur

He was running late. Again. He was always running late to everything. Why was that? He never knew. He guessed it was because he never set his alarm early enough. Or maybe it was that he actually liked being late, most mornings. He hated the line of cars, their engines sputtering out gray puffs, their loud honks punching through the quiet morning. When he was late, he had the street to himself. He liked being alone. He felt most like himself when he was alone.

​But not this morning. This morning he was very late to work, and he couldn’t afford the leisurely stroll down the street, to enjoy the tranquil solitude. Also, he hadn’t slept well. He often didn’t sleep well, but it was always without reason. This time there was a reason. She had called. He hadn’t talked to her in a very long time. She called late at night, right as he muted the television, preparing for another dreamless, restless sleep. Then the phone buzzed around on the nightstand, and he picked it up, said Hello. Her soft, breathy voice spoke back. She needed help. Help was code for money. He was hoping she needed help from him. That she needed him. That was not the case. He transferred money to her account. Said Goodnight. Went to sleep. Or at least tried to. Why hadn’t he asked her why she needed money? And what scared him more? That he didn’t know his own daughter? Or that he knew her too well?

​And that’s how he spent the night, letting the questions take over. He hated when the questions took over, but the answers never stood a chance; they’d always be outnumbered.

He couldn’t quite explain why he did it, but next thing he knew he was inside the coffee shop. He knew it was ridiculous to think that she’d be working in this store; she lived all the way across the state. But something told him to go in, to search for her; a voice, a calling. Perhaps he was dreaming. Inside his stomach butterflies of hope fluttered their wings wildly.  

The cashier that rung him up looked exactly like her, except a little shorter and wider, and she had freckles and dark brown eyes. But he let himself imagine. If he stared long enough into her dark eyes, they’d turn bright blue and curious. Her dark brown hair would lighten, her lips would grow redder, fuller. Her tough voice would melt and soften. The stranger would form into the familiar face he knew so well.

And then he’d want to ask all the questions he couldn’t ask. He’d want to apologize. But he never got what he wanted. If the cashier were really her, he’d just stand there, motionless, andhe’d smile. And she’d smile back. No words would be necessary; she’d understand, he’d understand, and they’d just stand there, staring at each other. A cashier and her customer, a daughter and her father. How much he longed to have that moment with her. But then the cashier broke their eye contact and motioned for the next person in line, as though after the transaction he became meaningless to her. He grabbed the coffee and left. Maybe it’d help wake him up from his daydream.