Page 96 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“We’re not here to objectify Mr. Coffee,” I whisper. “We’re here to enjoy caffeine in a serene environment.”

“What’s his name?” she asks, far too loud.

“Shhhh,” I say. “No clue. We don’t speak, we observe.”

She checks him out as he plays on his phone and waits for his coffee. “Oh… yum.”

“I know, right?” I whisper, leaning close so no one else can hear me. “I’m sure he has a girlfriend tormenting him, but it’s still fun to watch. You’ll see.”

“Kaitlin, put me down for finding joy anywhere you can,” she says with sincerity. Then, less sweet and a lot sassier, she says, “He definitely sparks some deep, deep joy.”

The barista yells out an order for Margot Robbie, and Mr. Coffee steps forward with one rueful shake of his head and claims his drinks while I give Jessica my “be freaking quiet” face.

“It’s a different name every day,” I whisper. “Claude Monet, Earl Grey, Caravaggio, Cary Elwes, Bono, Scooby-Doo, Ewan McGregor, Stevie Nicks.”

Jess gives me an odd look, but I’m focused on the shorts. And the fantastic legs. He collects his drinks and walks out into the sweltering summer heat.

Saturday, we wander downstairs at the leisurely hour of ten. Someone may have sat here “working” a weekend or two, trying to figure out if there was an alternate schedule for Saturdays and Sundays. Sadly, there is not.

I introduce Duncan and Jessica. Duncan is immediately enamored, and they bond over the mutual care they’ve given me and their entrepreneurial spirit. He steals my napkin doodle and replaces it with a second helping of tea and hugs me. He puts my doodles on a bulletin board. I hear him ask regulars which one they like best on occasion. There’s a morning crew that’s too city to introduce themselves but fully aware and silently judging everything that happens in the place. I mentally refer to them as the busybodies.

According to the staff, the Espresso Yourself one with a bean wearing a cone bra and a blonde-ambition ponytail is the current fan favorite.

“Our Kaitlin is looking happy, isn’t she?” Duncan asks, looking at Jess.

“I think it’s your tea,” Jessica says. “And the art does good things for her too.”

“Kaitlin, I have something for you,” Duncan says, and when I ask what it is, he says nothing, just hands me a folded piece of white cloth.

He’s put my first silly sketch on a T-shirt. I hold it up. The front says The Other Bean with my first stick figure bean, and the back has the naked bean butt, with Instant Human, Just Add Coffee in my block handwriting. I’m biased, but it’s kind of adorable.

“That’s ridiculously cute,” Jess says, and Duncan nods in agreement.

“Did Kaitlin tell you she’s agreed to do a show of her paintings here?” Duncan asks Jess. “We’re aiming for October.”

Jess looks at me, all squinty-eyed. “Why, no, she didn’t mention it.”

I try to head for the door, but she grabs my arm, and before the conversation is over, she’s agreed to help me with getting everything together. I’m thankful because six weeks doesn’t seem nearly long enough.

I set out to name the four remaining large heart paintings, and try as I might to give them a proper name, I had to name them With, Or, Without, and You. The first one, unbeknownst to anyone but me, has always been All I Want Is You. When we talked, there was always background music, often U2. I have a visceral reaction to their music now; it’s all tangled up in my memories of him, so the names feel right.

A small canvas with a sheep jumping over a heart made of a fluffy cloud and silky blankets is Sleep Like a Baby Tonight. One I painted when I first arrived in Chicago, angry and lonely, is Bad. A bright yellow one the shade of lemon peel is, of course, Lemon. U2 songs become names, the soundtrack of the time when our lives overlapped. Did he delete our playlists after he walked away?

I use The Verve for the darkest pieces. First, Lucky Man for the one that has real tear stains if you know where to look. The Drugs Don’t Work is a bleeding heart, deep angry red against a black background. The most chaotic becomes Love is Noise. I run low on Verve songs; they didn’t make a lot of albums, but I use Bittersweet Symphony on a black-and-white heart.

Wonderwall by Oasis and Roots by Grace Davies work their way in. I sniff as Even Now by Dashboard Confessional finds a place in the mix. When I see the painting named Silver Springs, the lyrics pop into my head about voices haunting you, and I make the executive decision that each piece will have a thick vellum card that will bear my signature in silver like my paintings do, the name of the piece, and the year I painted it, the lines that made me choose the song, and a small space for a handwritten price.

If I had known how cathartic it would be to exorcise him, song by song, I would have done it already.

Another Love goes on a card with the lines about tears used up. Last is Lana Del Ray’s Did you know that there’s a tunnel underneath Ocean Blvd, complete with odd capitalization, and the part about not forgetting me. I hit flow state, and six hours later, I’m printing them, wondering why I’m so hungry.

The prices are stupid high, mostly because Jess went behind me and made them all higher. I’ll be devastated if they all end up back in my guest room, unwanted and a lot harder to stack. Fingers crossed, Chicagoland will like my stuff.

The most expensive are the largest—the four hearts. I can’t keep them, but I can visit them every morning with a cup of tea while I get used to the idea of parting with them. When I’m ready, I’ll reduce the price and let go of them.

Each card goes with its painting, then each song-painting pairing goes on the opening night playlist.

I’m ready. I feel lighter than I have in months.