Some short prose
The grout on the cafe floor ought to be replaced. The beetle-green tile squares, once surrounded by white, are now framed by browns and greys. I try to count the great number of them under my table. If I want to get an accurate count, I would have to leave my chair. Since I am quite comfortable, I won’t do any such thing.
This cafe still has an awning over the door, although such things may have gone out of style already. The bell jingles and I train my eyes to point at the coffee cup in my hand. To look up at each new customer that enters is rudeness that is specific to coffee shops.
Slick white booties click across the swampy floors like small wave breaks. She is here again and she is dressed all in black, save for the shoes. I look at my coffee again and manifest the sound of the chair across from me scraping as it’s pulled away. If I knew her order, I would try it myself. Maybe feel a bit closer to the person whose face I’ve never quite seen. I usually look away before she fully turns in my direction.
I am well dressed enough. Dark slacks, a turtleneck, lipstick I’ve only just reapplied, and nails short and clean. Perhaps I look more bookish than I actually am. Today I have left the book in my bag under my chair, and I have been drawing swirls that almost intersect, but not quite.
A large, thick one in the center. Its tail huddled into itself, impossibly trapped by the outer coils. I begin a new one, close enough but not quite.
The chair scrapes.
I look up as she sits down. It’s as if a painting has fallen loose from its careful bindings and fallen to the floor. Art is sudden and painful. She has a ceramic glass in one hand, and rings, so many rings, on the other.
I wet my lips, hoping that my teeth are pearly white and not splotched with red.
“What’s in the cup?”
