The Atheists of Dayton

The heavenly aroma of freshly roasted Ethiopian Yirgacheffe wafted in the air as Jake, an aspiring sculptor, made latte after half-skim no-whip-oat-milk latte. He carefully etched his personal triangle design into the foam before sliding each cup across a polished counter to a waiting, thirsty customer.

Cafe Kumagaya, the Japanese single-origin gourmet coffee emporium, felt like the most exotic place to work in Dayton, Ohio - at least until after you put in a few months of 12-hour shifts.

As he fell into the rhythm of his work, and the morning rush hummed around him, Jake pondered the meaning of human existence in a vast, unknowable universe. If there was one thing he was certain of in the vastness of nothingness, it was that God didn’t exist. A fairy tale for the foolish. Reading Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion had hardened his conviction. Spending nights scrolling r/Atheism, he collected arguments against religion the way others collected limited edition Star Wars toys.

The bell above the entrance door jingled. He knew the type before she even reached the counter – soft pastel cardigan, reusable cup in hand, and probably a tiny silver cross somewhere.

“Chai tea latte, please,” she said to the cashier.

“One Chai latte!” Jake echoed from his station. He made the drink in silence, snapped the lid back on, and handed it over.

‘Have a blessed day!” she said, her face beaming with benevolence.

Jake’s jaw tightened. The word “blessed” landed like a slap. It was basically hate speech for an atheist; there should be a law against it. He had to stand up for himself. “Sorry, but I’m an atheist.”

The woman blinked. “What did you say?”

“You heard me-”

Before he could finish, the other barista on duty, Emily, leaned over and flashed her best customer-service smile (an ear-to-ear grin she could turn on in an instant). “Have a blessed day, ma’am.”

The customer gave her a polite nod, took her reuseable cup, and left Cafe Kumagaya without saying another word. The bell jingled behind her.

Emily whispered, “That was hilarious,” her eyebrows waggling with amusement.

“Thanks,” Jake muttered, his eyes flicking to the purple Atheists of Dayton pin on her apron, doubling the irony.

“But let's save the sermons for after work?” Emily said. “We’re not exactly winning converts confronting grandmas at 9 a.m.”

The afternoon of decaf this and extra-shot that rolled on. During a slow period, Emily rested an elbow against the counter. “Random question. What book would you bring if you were stranded on an island for a month with no internet?”

Jake didn’t even pause. “I wouldn’t bring books. I’d bring an Isamu Noguchi coffee table and just stare at it for thirty days.”

“You are sooo weird!" Emily burst out laughing, eyes sparkling. Jake couldn't help noticing how unrestrained she was, and how his own smile widened with hers. "But I’m glad you’ve moved on from only Richard Dawkins. Trying to prove something doesn’t exist while you’re on an empty island wouldn’t make a ton of sense.”

A small, proud smile tugged at his mouth. “I’m trying to be well-rounded. Get it?”

“Get what?” Emily asked.

“It’s a pun. Isamu Noguchi was a sculptor.”

“Oh! I learn something every day. Now, I suppose you are going to fill me in.”

Like a dog that can’t resist fetching a ball, Jake filled her in. He told her Isamu Noguchi was a Japanese-American sculptor in the early 1900s. He had a Japanese father and an American mother, a rare combination in the era. He bounced back and forth between America and Japan, never really belonging anywhere. Not belonging drove him in his art. It made him aware of emptiness, what artists call 'negative space'. Art can be just as much from what’s not there as what is there. As in the chiaroscuro drawing technique, you start by filling in the shadows instead of drawing the nose. After Noguchi lost his dad, he poured everything into his work, living alone in a studio for decades, shaping stone and paper around empty space until it became something.

Jake, mid-monologue, how deeply he dove into whatever artist had captured his attention. He wrapped up with, "Angst. That's what it takes to make real art. No compromise.”

As he finished, Emily studied him with a soft, lingering gaze. “Starve the heart so the art can grow?” Emily tilted her head. “So… you need to be alone to be a real sculptor?”

“Exactly. Focus on the craft and make it by thirty, and then I can afford to hole up in a studio in Paris, and just work.”

She gave him a long searching look, something tender flickering in her eyes. “You’ve got it all mapped out, huh? Well, don’t forget about Sunday.”

The Picket Line

That Sunday, the three of them– Jake, Emily, and Jake’s best friend Bob–formed a somewhat porous picket line outside the gleaming new megachurch in the suburbs. Their homemade signs flapped in the morning breeze.

“God is a lie!” Bob shouted at no one in particular and everyone in general.

“God is the original patriarchy! We are not HIS creation!” declared Emily, voice clear and passionate, chin lifted defiantly.

“Bad things happen to good people for no reason!” Jake yelled, this his addition to their chorus of truth.

A middle-aged woman in a gray hoodie tried to wind past them toward the doors. Emily stepped aside politely, but Jake held his ground.

“You don’t need to go in there today,” he said, tone filled with certainty.

The woman’s eyes were red. “My nephew has cancer,” she said. “What are you going to do to help him?”

Jake opened his mouth, closed it. For once, nothing came out.

“Well then,” she said quietly, “get out of my way.”

Jake stepped aside.

As she disappeared into the church, Emily reached over and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, her fingers lingering a second longer than necessary. “I guess it gives her hope.”

“Hope?” Jake snorted. “The odds of god actually helping are like one in a billion.”

“So… about the same odds as you becoming a famous sculptor in Paris?” Emily asked softly.

Jake’s grip tightened on his sign, and then he threw it to the ground with a clatter. “This is stupid. I’m leaving.”

Back on the Chain Gang

The next morning, behind the counter, Emily wiped down the milk frother with slow, methodical strokes while one long customer nursed his drink in the far corner. Jake had been sullen and sore all morning.

“Sorry about yesterday,” Emily said sheepishly.

Jake glanced over, still carrying the sting of humiliation.

Emily continued, “You have a lot of talent in art. I think you’re going to make it.”

“Really?” he asked, immediately hating how eager he sounded.

“I've seen how good your work is. And you've taught me about dozens of artists. You are a path.”

“A path? That could be. And, we have made some progress with our other project. He gestured at their AOD pins and asked gently, “So, how did you become interested in atheism?”

“It’s actually more than an interest.” Emily said, “The church is against women’s rights, forces women to be baby factories.”

“I don't think they're literally forcing anyone to make babies,” Jake cut in, surprising himself.

“Imagine that….” She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe just in The Handmaid’s Tale.”

He stared at her for a long second. So, you could be a Christian and be against motherhood. That’s possible, right?”

“Not going to happen, but yeah, sure.” Emily gave him a strange look. “So, Jake, why do you spend so much time being an atheist?”

“To show people they’re wrong.”

“And what do you get out of that?”

The question landed harder than he expected. What did he get? Jake thought about his dad leaving when he was ten. He thought of all the lies adults told children – the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, that everything works out if you finish your dinner and follow the Ten Commandments.

He wiped his hands on his apron, heart suddenly loud in his ears.

“I don’t know, ” he said softly. “Maybe I’m not right, but they aren’t either.”

“And?” Emily waited, the espresso machine humming between them.

“I don’t know,” he repeated, quieter this time.

“Your art, your sculpture, is where your real potential to change the world is.”

Jake exhaled. “I keep thinking if I just stay alone and work—really alone, like Noguchi—then the art will happen. No compromises, no distractions.”

“Am I a distraction?” Emily asked, eye locking onto his.

“No!” he said quickly, warmth rushing to his face. Up close, he could see the shine in her brown eyes and smell the vanilla scent of her shampoo. “You give me a lot to think about.”

A hopeful smile spread across her lips, as she leaned in slightly. “Well then…why don't you ask me out for a drink tonight?”

Jake's eyes widened, a quiet flutter of possibility opened in his chest. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”

For the first time in a long while, Jake felt the negative space inside him shift, making room for a shape he hadn’t planned on, and for once, it didn’t feel like emptiness at all.