Cold Coffee

This is a (very) short story I wrote at the end of spring semester. It was an attempt to write something 'tender,' as I tend to write in an opposing manner.
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Cold Coffee

Ha, here I am again. Same time as always, I wonder if she’ll remember me this time.
“What can I get ya?”
“Coffee.”“That it?”
“And toast.” I’ve ordered the same thing since October—she still doesn’t remember me.
“No eggs or nothin’ darlin’?”
“Nah, I eat light in the afternoon.” Flash smile and wink. Yeah, real smooth Casanova.
“Comin’ up Shug.”
“Shug.’ ‘Darlin’.” Shit like that keeps you employed.
“Coffee and toast.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Not too busy today.” That’s right; hook her before she’s gone out of your sad, little life.
“Slow Friday I guess, Hun.”
“Have any big plans for the weekend?”
“Heh.” I love that smile. “What’s next? Gonna comment on the weather?”
Shit. Okay. Cool out. And stop grinning you fool. So what if the Café Angel is on to you.
“Well now that you mention it, it is awfully nice out.” Okay, my face is starting to hurt. Only she can make me grin this big.
And there it is a sleight giggle and the smile that cures cancer. “Alright hotshot I gatta get back to work.” Wait. She’s leaning in. “And try not to stare too hard as I walk away.” That smile. Wars are fought over things so beautiful. Oh God now I’m blushing. I can feel it—the red hot burn of shame.

She wears that uniform like a gown and that apron like an elegant accessory. Her hair in a small bun, like a princess—Princess of Dirty Dishes. Black ballet shoes with the legs to match, gracefully weaving in and out of tables, balancing trays of food—the minimum wedge dancer. I guess it comes with being on your feet all day. What I wouldn’t give to be the one to sweep her off hers.
“Everything alright?”
“Yeah.” Sip coffee and smile.
“The coffee is shit here and you’re eating white toast. What is there to smile about?”
“The company.” Okay, a bit much. Lock that shit up fool; don’t lay it on too thick. Wait a minute, is she blushing?
“How ‘bout a refill?” She has the cutest giggle.
“Suits me just fine.”
With a look back she is off again. Making the rounds, picking up dishes, cleaning tables, working the register, all the time followed by the angelic glow of her hair.

“You want your check hotshot?”
Shit, I’ve been here along time. “Yeah, why not?”
“You tell me.”

New Post?!

I was working on something, but with the following of a hamster running in a wheel it’s not top priority. Add to that the massive blood loss from homework and the only thing I ever feel like doing is napping. Over spring break I did just that, and it left me with a weird sensation commonly referred to as “energy.” Although calling it “spring” break is generous. Maybe “Reverse Fall Break” would have been more appropriate. Or better yet “Nearly Spring Break” and its tag line would be, “plenty of sun, none of the fun!” Not like it matters too much for me, as if there was sun there would have been only a minor change to how I spent my break. Instead of waking and declaring it is indeed cold and then watching movies, I would have woken and lightly commented on the fact that there may be a God and thank him/her/it that he/she/it wasn’t always bitter, and then watch movies.

An Alcoholic Obsession

It was a month or so ago when I got into trouble. Since that time I've had a lot of firsts: first time in a fight, first time I ran out on a bill, first time I was ever shot at or stabbed. The list goes on. I won't go into details, because I don't have much time left.

It all started, as every tragic story does, with a girl. Deep black hair, hopeless-blue eyes; the kind you can get lost in. She had a reckless attitude as her only survival skill. Effortless beauty and a wealth of "character;" I had to have her.

We first met in a seedy bar in a not-so seedy part of town. I had just gotten off work and felt the need to drink my wage, the kind of day when I envy the dead. I saw her talking to the bartender as I downed my fourth or fifth glass. I ordered another as she moved to one of the shadowy booths that lined the bar wall. I gave a few fruitless glances, but her face was in the shadows. I didn't mind, I still had plenty to look at. She wore a skirt; I remember thinking it was weird, being January and all. It was black and came to just above the knee. It did wonders to her legs, making them look longer and more elegant. Her frame was a graceful beauty, the kind you only find in old paintings; back when the female body was something beautiful not an object. Time passed and I didn't care. As long as she was there, I would be too.

Someone came from the back of the bar and she stood up and followed. Not five minutes later she came walking back, alone. As she walked past she stopped. She leaned over and whispered in my ear "See you, Cowboy." She must have noticed me. I felt stupid. I had to talk to her. I had to follow her.

She had stolen my wallet. After promising the bartender I would pay him later I ran out the door in her wake. But she was gone and I didn't even get a name. A couple million people live in this city and it's still the loneliest place on earth. I walked home just me and the street lights.

A few days later there was a knock at my door. I ran to look through the peep hole. It was her. I played it cool and answered with a "Who is it?" She responded with "Your new friend, Cowboy. Now open up." I undid the dead bolts and opened the door. She was smiling. She wore smiles like gloss. She said she needed a place to stay, until "the heat was off." I didn't mind; first house guest in years.

It was my driver's license that led her to my place. Those things come in handy even if you don't own a car. I grabbed the Jack from the freezer and poured her some in a coffee mug. She was more beautiful than I remembered. Her face like a stream; calm and gentle on the surface, wild and dangerous underneath. Still elegant and gorgeous; she sat on my couch like a queen on her throne.

She told me a story. She needed money. Now owed it. She was in debt, like all of us. The exception was, credit card companies, banks, family, don't cut your hand off. We spent what was left of the night talking; what was left of her family and what happened to mine. I knew few people the way I now knew her.

It was only a few days before the nameless bad guys showed up. In hindsight I should have asked who they were, but in her presence she was all that mattered. We used the fire escape as they had broken, and were blocking, the only door. We ran through the alley and bumped into another. He looked just like you'd think, sunglasses, leather jacket. The works. It was in the act of bumping that he put the knife into my stomach. A calming heat spread over my abdomen. I punched him in the jaw a few times; it's harder then the movies make it look to knock a guy down. We made it to a hospital just as I was feeling light headed.

I remember waking up in the hospital. I know by the smell and blinding light. The other thing I remember was holding her hand and running bare foot through the halls. I called an old friend who put us up for the night, and only the night. I left him a 20 on the table and we went out for breakfast.

Steak and eggs. Coffee. A Goddess. My first breakfast.

A plan to escape was formed. We would spend one more week in the city to tie up loose ends, after that we would head for green pastures.

We spent that night in a homeless shelter, not too bad.

She needed to say good bye to some family so we had to find a pay phone. A task that proved hard. It was when she was on the phone that I was shot at. A weird noise a gun shot, more of a pop than a bang. Lucky for us this guy's aim was crap. We decided to split up and meet at the train station in two days, instead of the full week we had planned.

I quit my job, I was surprised I wasn't fired, and took all my money out of the bank. I said my good byes to coworkers and "friends," and remembered not to mention where I was headed.

That leaves me here, at the train station. I haven't seen my goddess yet, and the train leaves in five.

Introduction

There is no, nor will there be to my knowledge, a theme for this blog. The first post will actually be a repost. It's not that I'm lazy. It's just time is scarce and I have big plans for the future. However, this is not the future. This is the now (or least it was). The first real post was actually an assignment for composition two class. The professor stated I was allowed to write a blog about anything. In this case free reign was a blessing and a curse. That is, however, neither here nor there, nor anywhere. I hope to have it up in a day or so the piece can speak for itself.


Now that business is out of the way, a little about myself. I am currently a student (aren't we all). My major is undeclared. My English professor made the mistake of saying I had potential. To illustrate the mass inaccuracy of that statement I have decided to take up the challenge and start a blog. There were only two stories I wrote for that class. The first will not be posted. The second will be the said first post. My fondness for this story may or may not be shared. If this story is truly my writing style, then be prepared for further posts of this nature. It was described to me by my father as “Neo-Noir.” I will, however, allow you to make your own decision.