A certain warmth hangs in the air, a waft of heated milk, hot breath and freshly baked pastries that could almost force him into producing a sweat. He quietly sits in a chair and takes in his surroundings, his upper thigh pressed against a table stained with coffee, ash and God only knows what else, balanced on uneven legs. It is his first time at a place like this and he is amused.
Before long, his coffee arrives, dangerously close to spilling over the edge of the cup and teeming with possibility. The door swings open and a gentle ringing of a bell alerts the small crowd of patrons and workers that a new customer has arrived. He detaches his hand from the handle of the mug and holds it in the breeze of the open door, that’s now swinging shut. He smiles as he gazes down at the surface of his drink, saliva flooding against his tongue as he imagines the taste. He wraps his fingers around the handle. The fact that his hand is practically too large to grip the dainty mug goes unnoticed. He smells freshly cut grass and the odd mixture of sawdust and scrap metal from his grandfather’s workshop. The warmth radiating from the coffee transforms itself into that of beautiful Georgian sunshine. Staring past the cup, he can almost see a summer spent on his grandparent’s farm, sipping his first cup coffee with the beans his grandma and he used to make together, still encrusted under his fingernails that always had a way of being just a bit too long. Now it was brought to him by a red headed barista. Now he had purchased it. Paid for it.
Suddenly a woman wrenches out the chair opposite him and he smiles at the rumble that now meant company. The eyes are the same as the ones he remembers; a dark, inviting, chocolate brown that gleamed with the warmth, the same warmth from the coffee that used to emanate from her being. She sweeps a golden strand of hair from her face, tucking it into place behind her ear and wets her lips with her tongue. He sees a light pink colored lipstick, not quite unbecoming, but foreign on her face. He sees a darker shade of hair, too, and a stream that bubbled across the back of his grandparents’ property, that amber colored hair bouncing and wiggling down the length of her back as she ran, hurtling far ahead of him. An all-consuming smile flashed across her face that he saw as she turned round to watch him chase after her. He never failed to catch her because she always slowed to let him.
He forces his attention to focus on the face in front of him and extends a halfhearted handshake only to let it fall, defeated, to the table. He stared at it, blood burning hot in his cheeks. He was suddenly aware of his other hand, and how it didn’t quite fit in the mug’s slim handle. He was suddenly aware that he didn’t quite belong here. How did he get here? She sighs and shakes her head, smiling as she did it, her bleached blonde hair bouncing out from behind her ear. She presses her hand against the top of his. She exhales through her mouth and rubs her thumb comfortingly across the top of his hand. Her breath smells like tobacco and booze, with a hint of coffee.
Her touch is coarse, her hand calloused, but in his memory there lives a glimpse of gentleness. His calluses, pressed against the warm, slightly moist wood of the table, were sore and the sweat that was collecting on his palm stung, but the hand on his was dry and held its position relentlessly. He recollects muck on her knees and elbows and how she had scraped her forearm against the bark of the trees that they sat next to, sat under, took refuge in and climbed up. Tiny droplets of blood rushed to the surface of the scrape and the wind swished and wooshed through the leafy canopy above them, the sky transforming into an array of colors, bringing the call of parents for the children to come home, that boded the end of the day and ultimately, of the summer, too.
The ringing of the bell can be heard again. He lurches forward, thrown from his memory. His knee jolts the table and the cups shake. A few drops spill from the edge of the mug she held that was resting on the table, and begin to run down the white of the cup. He stares at them fixedly. They halt against her finger. She wipes at them, catching the brown wetness on her finger, and places it on her tongue. He grins at the display. She smiles back at him. Her eyes pursue his; she needs to show him she is enjoying herself with him.
At last he ventures to begin to speak; a few conversations are feebly discussed, vainly mulled over and ultimately cast-off. A rare joke is feebly laughed at and dissipates into silence. He fidgets uncomfortably in his seat, his large and too-long-immobile left leg cramping. His knee bumps the table again. The coffee floods from the cups, messy and unrestricted. She gasps sharply as she thrusts back from the mess. He mutters a meek apology and she nods her head. He has paid for it already, after all; why should he care how much is spilled from the porcelain mugs? He has paid for it already.
She dismisses his stammered apology and takes a commanding but friendly grip on his wrist. His breath catches in his throat and becomes shallow. She brings her being closer to his, locking eyes. She arches her right eyebrow and he shakes his head. Up and down. He breathes in the scent coming from her, a strange and unsatisfying mixture of lavender and another indistinguishable odor, acrid in his nose. His tongue nervously wets his lips and she exhales again.
Memories forcibly return to his attention. The scent of sweat produced from childhood games mingled with the sound of a summer rain. Their lips touch. She tasted of the earth and the rain, of heaven and angles and she tasted of coffee and summer. His trembling hands stopped. His eyes were imprisoned upon her delicate face as her hands groped blindly at his broad, muscular shoulders. She grinned up at him, an open mouthed genuine smile, her amber hair leaking across the earth, contrasting against the sharp green of the grass, a strand stuck to her forehead with the rain and sweat. He pushed himself against her as her breath surged into his ear. He liquefied into her deep, brown, coffee colored eyes.
She coughed loudly, clearing her throat and he silently blinked back at her. He had no response fit for words. She threw a glance at the coffee stationed on the table, pooling up. And at the mugs still a bit full. As she releases her grip on the cup he attempts to speak. An inaudible, incomprehensible murmur escapes his lips. She gulps loudly and takes a large swallow, draining the cup. A motion effortlessly performed. She jolts suddenly to her feet, wiping at the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand. She tugs at his arm and begins to pull him from the coffee shop. He exhales silently, tears menacing his eyes, threatening to spill over as the coffee did from the cups, at the slightest jolt. He chews his bottom lip, remembering the price. But he has already paid for it.
The white mugs are empty now. The purity stained brown and the liquid ingested. The winter wind blows harsh against his body, evaporating the heat of the summer memory and the heat from the shop. The smell of coffee, of grass and trees and sweat and body odor and summer disperses. All that was left was a stained white empty cup, tarnished with cheap, pink lipstick.
Her touch is coarse, her hand calloused, but in his memory there lives a glimpse of gentleness. His calluses, pressed against the warm, slightly moist wood of the table, were sore and the sweat that was collecting on his palm stung, but the hand on his was dry and held its position relentlessly. He recollects muck on her knees and elbows and how she had scraped her forearm against the bark of the trees that they sat next to, sat under, took refuge in and climbed up. Tiny droplets of blood rushed to the surface of the scrape and the wind swished and wooshed through the leafy canopy above them, the sky transforming into an array of colors, bringing the call of parents for the children to come home, that boded the end of the day and ultimately, of the summer, too.
The ringing of the bell can be heard again. He lurches forward, thrown from his memory. His knee jolts the table and the cups shake. A few drops spill from the edge of the mug she held that was resting on the table, and begin to run down the white of the cup. He stares at them fixedly. They halt against her finger. She wipes at them, catching the brown wetness on her finger, and places it on her tongue. He grins at the display. She smiles back at him. Her eyes pursue his; she needs to show him she is enjoying herself with him.
At last he ventures to begin to speak; a few conversations are feebly discussed, vainly mulled over and ultimately cast-off. A rare joke is feebly laughed at and dissipates into silence. He fidgets uncomfortably in his seat, his large and too-long-immobile left leg cramping. His knee bumps the table again. The coffee floods from the cups, messy and unrestricted. She gasps sharply as she thrusts back from the mess. He mutters a meek apology and she nods her head. He has paid for it already, after all; why should he care how much is spilled from the porcelain mugs? He has paid for it already.
She dismisses his stammered apology and takes a commanding but friendly grip on his wrist. His breath catches in his throat and becomes shallow. She brings her being closer to his, locking eyes. She arches her right eyebrow and he shakes his head. Up and down. He breathes in the scent coming from her, a strange and unsatisfying mixture of lavender and another indistinguishable odor, acrid in his nose. His tongue nervously wets his lips and she exhales again.
Memories forcibly return to his attention. The scent of sweat produced from childhood games mingled with the sound of a summer rain. Their lips touch. She tasted of the earth and the rain, of heaven and angles and she tasted of coffee and summer. His trembling hands stopped. His eyes were imprisoned upon her delicate face as her hands groped blindly at his broad, muscular shoulders. She grinned up at him, an open mouthed genuine smile, her amber hair leaking across the earth, contrasting against the sharp green of the grass, a strand stuck to her forehead with the rain and sweat. He pushed himself against her as her breath surged into his ear. He liquefied into her deep, brown, coffee colored eyes.
She coughed loudly, clearing her throat and he silently blinked back at her. He had no response fit for words. She threw a glance at the coffee stationed on the table, pooling up. And at the mugs still a bit full. As she releases her grip on the cup he attempts to speak. An inaudible, incomprehensible murmur escapes his lips. She gulps loudly and takes a large swallow, draining the cup. A motion effortlessly performed. She jolts suddenly to her feet, wiping at the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand. She tugs at his arm and begins to pull him from the coffee shop. He exhales silently, tears menacing his eyes, threatening to spill over as the coffee did from the cups, at the slightest jolt. He chews his bottom lip, remembering the price. But he has already paid for it.
The white mugs are empty now. The purity stained brown and the liquid ingested. The winter wind blows harsh against his body, evaporating the heat of the summer memory and the heat from the shop. The smell of coffee, of grass and trees and sweat and body odor and summer disperses. All that was left was a stained white empty cup, tarnished with cheap, pink lipstick.
Wow! So descriptive it felt as though I was sitting right there with him....great writing/story
ReplyDelete