The Coffee House - A Short

The days bloomed and dried like perennial flowers, petals of hours torn free by the wind to seek cool water and shadow within which they might be forgotten.
Memory shimmered with the heat, blurring detail and color into an Impressionistic canvas upon which everything was distorted when one looked too closely. The white pieces of lumber sprouting from the scorched earth, frame bound together by metal and work. Arrhythmic strands of birdsong. Chloe dancing in the front room, her eyes closed, mouth open. Broken mirrors. The limbo between dreams and drinks shifted with the sun, sometimes noticed, sometimes eternal. The difference was inconsequential.
I noticed the woman upon walking into the coffee house. Blonde. Large eyes. More flesh than she needed. The sort of smile that derailed conversations, wrecking trains of thought. The morning crowd had dissipated into their offices. Taking my espresso to a table against the back wall, I gave her no more thought than she deserved. Her eyes sought my own. Fragments of the road were coming back, and they had grown sharp. Faces without names. Backs gleaming. Ecstatic grimace.
The damp crunch of a joint pushed too far, screams illuminated by strobe lights, blood on the wall, on the sheet. Legs stretched upward, outward. Same place. Same face. Protest indiscernible, a plea drowned in music. Entire languages reduced to nod and shake. Pieces of the night somehow darker, moving, waiting for me to look away. Blink once. Twice. No more.
Ceramic searing my fingers, dark liquid waiting. Focus recedes.
Flash and blindness. Afternoon. Shadows stop moving. Stitching the night closed with the thread of explanation, crimson dried maroon in jagged parallel lines, mapping the path from pillowcase to comforter, the eternity separating scapula from solace.
Strange girl rising, her face a faded moon in the night of memory.
Choosing her dress. Fallen sun. Neckties knotted on the headboard, the glass full of warm soda. Cigarettes without lighters, eyes without colors and everybody is watching somebody else. Moving faster. Closing doors.
Rabbit scream of the cappuccino machine. Cream mist hides the alchemist.
Throat relaxed, smooth sandstone, a statue leaning on sharp elbows, claws extended. Semen spurting, incessant cascade into the canyon of her sex, red clay vulva. Deeper, the sluice resounds. Indigo glans, accomplice, decompressing on her cheek. Residue of shit and saliva below her ear, clear drop forming.
Smell of burnt vanilla, caffeine floating, gradual descent. A spiderweb breaks.
Frosted windows and the lights keep flashing, spectrum keeping time with a slowing pulse. Vodka expands upon contact, forming a pool beside the bed. She has no such luck. Leaning over the side, she can see everything. Hair tousled like brown leaves of wild grass. Iris the color of old bruises. Reaching down toward herself, a finger breaks the surface. The image ripples, distorts before she has the chance to recognize the face.
"Excuse me."
I looked away from the past to the present, chasing the voice. The woman was standing beside the table, tucking strands of yellow hair behind her ear. Her smile was hesitant, hopeful.
Like that of a nurse with a patient regaining consciousness.
"I'm sorry, but I'm supposed to be meeting somebody here, somebody I haven't met before. Are you Eric?"
Seconds fractured and broke apart, the smallest pieces of which I took to consider my response. Could I be another man? For an hour? For a night? Possibilities unfurled, paths carved by words and careful sentences. I could start over here, pick up where another man never had the opportunity to leave off. I could pretend I knew things I had yet to learn. Middle names. Red or white grapes. Small hometowns and the ages of siblings. I could pretend I did not know the things I have learned, speaking without fear of seduction or offense, acting a part unrehearsed. Courtship. Gold and diamonds. Children. Porch swings. Peering into her eyes, I saw a hope independent of my face. The dream of a romantic, seeking the first star, dropping small change in a fountain.
No matter how the story might be written, the ending is always the same.
"Regrettably, no," I replied with a soft thought otherwise. Orgasms and despondency flitted across my vision, translucent spots after glimpsing bright light. "Should he fail to meet your appointment, however, I should be flattered to assume his place." The light behind her gaze dimmed somewhat, falling with the corners of her mouth.
"That's alright," she murmured. "Thanks." And away she went, returning to the chair from which she had risen.
I stared at the table, quaffing the contents of my cup and two more before remembering the time, the place and the distance. Occasional glances went unnoticed. Women came and went with paper cups. The men wouldn't even cross the street. Gathering my notes and cigarette butts, I saw the woman sitting by the window, watching. Waiting.
This is romance, I thought as I pushed the door away, the unwrapped gift of a promise, empty in expectant hands. An unremarkable lady alone, hoping otherwise. This is the wound that always bleeds, the truth we look away from, stumbling about in the dark room. Why is it we only identify knives by touch?
Suppressing every instinct, I did not turn back.