Coffee shop
By samhennig
- 268 reads
She is wearing a blue, tie dyed t-shirt with the words ‘dream big’ across the front. The t-shirt hangs at angles from each roll of fat beneath, and he thinks that the only thing this woman has ever ‘dreamed big’ about in her life is her portion sizes. He imagines her in her dingy living room; the days last light casting ochre shadows across a cigarette-smoke infested carpet. On the side-table rests a tumbler; whisky cradling two slowly melting ice cubes. A message on his phone interrupts this particular train of thought and he looks down at the table from which it lies shouting, ‘GET 25% OFF any Domino’s Pizza ordered before September 25th!!’ before the screen eventually fades to black. By the time he looks back up, the woman has passed by the large coffee shop window and with her so has the world he had begun to imagine.
He takes a gulp of his now tepid oat-milk cappuccino. He has taken to drinking oat-milk, recently not because of any particular environmental or dietary concern, simply because of the taste (and his pretentious nature).
‘…In fact, I am not sure she ever really liked me.’ He suddenly tunes into her voice, remembering for the first time in the last 5 minutes that he is actually here with somebody. In a moment of slight panic, he searches beyond her to see if by some chance she isn’t addressing him or that the words came from somebody else altogether, but when he looks at her it is evident that he should have been listening. Her grey eyes searching him for an insightful comment; or, in fact, a comment of any kind and after a little too long he replies; ‘Of course she does’. He knows that his tone is less than convincing but in reacting with something other than a grunt or a ‘yeah’ seems to have, at the very least, bought himself the benefit of the doubt. ‘Well, if she liked me why did she do that?’ she instantly retorts. He waits, hoping that she will answer her own question, and luck seems to be on his side, ‘Why would she tell him that and then just pretend that she hadn’t? I mean honestly, did she think I wouldn’t find out? It just doesn’t make sense’. He is visibly relieved, it is clear that he is here as a sounding board and nothing more, no opinion necessary, just reassurance. ‘You’re right’ he exclaims, ‘absolutely right’, she flashes a satisfied smile and continues to lay in to whoever it is she is talking about.
He is not usually this distracted, usually he’d be more than willing participate in a good chat, and especially a good bitch, but today he seems to be wandering between reality and imagined worlds as freely as a bee making its way from stamen to stamen; drunk on the pollen of possibilities.
‘Anyway, I really need to make a move’ she says, already half standing, ‘I will transfer you for the coffee and thanks for the chat, it’s always so good to talk through these things with you.’ he half stands and they do a sort of awkward hug over the table which digs into his thighs, ‘see you soon bud’ he say as she walks towards the door.
He sits back down and as she disappears from view; he picks up his phone, unsure what he is hoping to see and indeed finding only the solitary message from Domino’s marooned in the centre of the screen.
He is a slight man with an awkward little face, the features of which sit ever so slightly too close to the centre. On their own, each feature has its own merits but once crowded together on one canvas the painting looks off, like something that would get a solid B in GCSE art. A white T-Shirt clings around his bony shoulders but from then on hangs outward, a tent for his rib cage and belly. His jeans are tight against his legs, a washed blue that makes them look old despite the fact he had only bought them a matter of days ago. As he sits looking at his phone absently, an itch on the side of his nose draws his hand with an urgency that causes him to drop his phone, rising to his feet he sends his gigantic mug of coffee tumbling to the floor, splitting on impact; brown liquid flowing across the wooden surface in far reaching strands. Quickly he bends, picks up his now soaking phone and head-down makes his way for the door, followed by the eyes of every patron. The vacuum created by the collective inhaling of air engulfs him in overwhelming silence. When he opens the door, the air lock seal is broken, and he is sucked out onto the pavement.
Cars seem to pass by in fast forward, sweeping past his vision in a blur, heat drying the moisture from his eyes. He blinks vigorously but is struggling to gain focus. He brings his hands to his face and within the darkness created he manages to balance himself, breathing deeply into his palms he eventually decides to release his vision back to the sun-soaked buildings that surround him. For the second time in a matter of minutes he finds himself at the centre of unwanted attention and speculation, he feels that he can hear the whispers of passers-by as they look on in a mixture of pity and fear. Having regained some semblance of composure he walks in the direction of the train station. Half way there he feels the buzz of his phone in his pocket and pulls it out, it is clear that he has received a message but due to the incident in the coffee shop he finds that a rather large patch of water damage has obscured half of what has been written including the senders name. The only words he can make out are;
‘…must find’
‘…r too long.’
And
‘…n’t forget.’
Judging by ‘…n’t forget’ he imagines the text is probably from his Dad who seems fond of constantly telling him not to forget some thing or another. It is ironic really when you consider that as a child, he would wait for hours on end for the arrival of his Father only to end up crying on his Mother’s shoulder as she violently whispered, ‘that fucking man’ or ‘I give up’. He squeezes the phone back into his pocket and continues toward the station.
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Comments
Interesting scene setting.
Interesting scene setting. Are you planning to follow this gentleman - I'd be interested to know what happens next!
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