Coffee Shop
I swirled the plastic spoon around the rim of the styrofoam cup.
Coffee circles formed only to disappear into the middle and become swallowed.
I continued mixing the three Splenda sugars and two creams as I glanced at the watch on my wrist for the fifth time. Christopher had better been boxed in, smack-dab on Broadway Street, restlessly strumming his fingertips on his dashboard or cursing out his window for the Taxi in front of him to move the hell out if his way; he had places to be.
The bell against the entrance door rung. I didn't bother to look up that time. I knew it wasn't him.
Marrette's Corner didn't hold much chatter that day. I could distinctly hear every lyric sung by Johnny Cash through the cornered jukebox. The saddest part was that I didn't even like "I Walk the Line." It lacked the momentum I needed to get me through my early mornings and fast-paced evenings.
"Carter," the last name of a customer's was softly called out by the young, female barista. I recognized her voice; she was the same one that had served me earlier.
I took a sip of my coffee that was getting colder with every second that passed. I was going to kill Christopher once he arrived--if he was to ever arrive. I would need to get back to the office in about a hour. Lucinda demanded that I was to have finished copies of Bersetein's article neatly typed, printed and good-to-go on her desk by twelve o'clock. I was a bit behind on my typing schedule.
"Sloan?"
My vision hesitantly cut over in the direction which I had heard my name. In Manhattan, being called by government was as rare as winning the lottery. People were typically identified by what they did or wore on a regular basis, like this lady that had to be no older than fifty that I always passed on my way to work. She had made a black trash bag into a poncho that she wore. She became known as Bag Lady.
My coffee cup was frozen mid-air as I took in the guy's dark hair slicked back into an artsy bun and full-coarse beard. They were the most dominating about his appearance.
"Sloan Quentino?" He questioned my entire name, swiveling around to face me head-on. A smile a thousand yards wide lit his face. That was when I knew exactly who he was. That smile...
"Carter," I gently spoke, registering his last name that had been called out before. "Wyatt Carter."
He stood to his feet and started making his way towards me. "Wow," he whistled. He stuffed both of his hands in his front pockets. "What are the odds of us being in the same place at the same time?" He stopped in front of my small table.
I relaxed back into the wooden chair. "I could ask the same thing. What has it been--twelve years?" I questioned, beginning to twirl the spoon in my coffee cup once more.
"That sounds about right. How have you been?"
I picked up the pace of the spoon. The circles in the cup formed and disappeared faster than before. "Uh, well, I suppose," I answered as honest as I could. "And you?"
"Great," he caroled. "My ma just asked about you not too long ago, actually. It was weird. Random. But then, you know, her mind has always been kind of out of it. That hasn't gotten much better. But that reminds me, we have a Carter reunion approaching soon."
"Oh, really?"
I could remember the Carter's reunions. Just like that, I was a seventeen-year-old again, roaming the beautiful backyard of Wyatt's parents, Wyatt and I glued to each other's sides; the hickory ribs and fat burgers were roasting on the Kenmore 6-Burner; just the smell in the light breeze had my mouth watering for a taste. Wyatt had a huge family, so countless food was made and the backyard had been packed to its maximum.
No member had ever missed the reunions unless they had been on their death bed, wheezing and coughing from illness.
"Yeah," he confirmed. "I know it's been a while, but maybe you could even come, you know. Be, like, my guest. Well, my returning guest." He nervously chuckled, beginning to sway on his feet a bit.
My mouth opened to respond, but words seemed lost.
"I mean, it's cool if you don't," Wyatt began. "I don't know why I even asked. Damn, I'm fucking up, huh?"
"No, no," I interjected, fanning my hand. The last thing I wanted was him to feel embarrassed. "I would lo--"
The bells angrily rang against the coffee shop's door. "Goddamn it, Keplan! I need you to back me up on this one, man." Christopher had finally arrived, of course, with a dramatic entrance.
I stared at Christopher as he mindlessly made his way over towards us. His mind was too connected with the other person on the other side of his phone.
Wyatt slyly pointed back at him. "Is that--"
"My boyfriend," I answered for him. I wrapped my hand around my coffee cup, carefully squeezing it. Little knots danced around in the pit of my stomach.
Wyatt nodded his head understandingly. He started to take baby steps back. "It was nice seeing you, Sloan Quentino."
"Wa--" I was on the verge of stopping him, but he had already turned away.
Christopher dragged the chair in front of me out and plopped down. "That's exactly what I said," he exclaimed out of excitement. His free hand went flying up in the air. He was still on the phone.
My focus rolled over to Wyatt Carter perched at the counter where he had first been. He stared straight ahead of him at a wall full of inspirational paintings and paintings of random trees near oceans and rivers by no-name artists.
Somehow I knew he wasn't truly studying anything the wall had to offer. The wall had nothing to offer.
I had everything to offer.
Coffee circles formed only to disappear into the middle and become swallowed.
I continued mixing the three Splenda sugars and two creams as I glanced at the watch on my wrist for the fifth time. Christopher had better been boxed in, smack-dab on Broadway Street, restlessly strumming his fingertips on his dashboard or cursing out his window for the Taxi in front of him to move the hell out if his way; he had places to be.
The bell against the entrance door rung. I didn't bother to look up that time. I knew it wasn't him.
Marrette's Corner didn't hold much chatter that day. I could distinctly hear every lyric sung by Johnny Cash through the cornered jukebox. The saddest part was that I didn't even like "I Walk the Line." It lacked the momentum I needed to get me through my early mornings and fast-paced evenings.
"Carter," the last name of a customer's was softly called out by the young, female barista. I recognized her voice; she was the same one that had served me earlier.
I took a sip of my coffee that was getting colder with every second that passed. I was going to kill Christopher once he arrived--if he was to ever arrive. I would need to get back to the office in about a hour. Lucinda demanded that I was to have finished copies of Bersetein's article neatly typed, printed and good-to-go on her desk by twelve o'clock. I was a bit behind on my typing schedule.
"Sloan?"
My vision hesitantly cut over in the direction which I had heard my name. In Manhattan, being called by government was as rare as winning the lottery. People were typically identified by what they did or wore on a regular basis, like this lady that had to be no older than fifty that I always passed on my way to work. She had made a black trash bag into a poncho that she wore. She became known as Bag Lady.
My coffee cup was frozen mid-air as I took in the guy's dark hair slicked back into an artsy bun and full-coarse beard. They were the most dominating about his appearance.
"Sloan Quentino?" He questioned my entire name, swiveling around to face me head-on. A smile a thousand yards wide lit his face. That was when I knew exactly who he was. That smile...
"Carter," I gently spoke, registering his last name that had been called out before. "Wyatt Carter."
He stood to his feet and started making his way towards me. "Wow," he whistled. He stuffed both of his hands in his front pockets. "What are the odds of us being in the same place at the same time?" He stopped in front of my small table.
I relaxed back into the wooden chair. "I could ask the same thing. What has it been--twelve years?" I questioned, beginning to twirl the spoon in my coffee cup once more.
"That sounds about right. How have you been?"
I picked up the pace of the spoon. The circles in the cup formed and disappeared faster than before. "Uh, well, I suppose," I answered as honest as I could. "And you?"
"Great," he caroled. "My ma just asked about you not too long ago, actually. It was weird. Random. But then, you know, her mind has always been kind of out of it. That hasn't gotten much better. But that reminds me, we have a Carter reunion approaching soon."
"Oh, really?"
I could remember the Carter's reunions. Just like that, I was a seventeen-year-old again, roaming the beautiful backyard of Wyatt's parents, Wyatt and I glued to each other's sides; the hickory ribs and fat burgers were roasting on the Kenmore 6-Burner; just the smell in the light breeze had my mouth watering for a taste. Wyatt had a huge family, so countless food was made and the backyard had been packed to its maximum.
No member had ever missed the reunions unless they had been on their death bed, wheezing and coughing from illness.
"Yeah," he confirmed. "I know it's been a while, but maybe you could even come, you know. Be, like, my guest. Well, my returning guest." He nervously chuckled, beginning to sway on his feet a bit.
My mouth opened to respond, but words seemed lost.
"I mean, it's cool if you don't," Wyatt began. "I don't know why I even asked. Damn, I'm fucking up, huh?"
"No, no," I interjected, fanning my hand. The last thing I wanted was him to feel embarrassed. "I would lo--"
The bells angrily rang against the coffee shop's door. "Goddamn it, Keplan! I need you to back me up on this one, man." Christopher had finally arrived, of course, with a dramatic entrance.
I stared at Christopher as he mindlessly made his way over towards us. His mind was too connected with the other person on the other side of his phone.
Wyatt slyly pointed back at him. "Is that--"
"My boyfriend," I answered for him. I wrapped my hand around my coffee cup, carefully squeezing it. Little knots danced around in the pit of my stomach.
Wyatt nodded his head understandingly. He started to take baby steps back. "It was nice seeing you, Sloan Quentino."
"Wa--" I was on the verge of stopping him, but he had already turned away.
Christopher dragged the chair in front of me out and plopped down. "That's exactly what I said," he exclaimed out of excitement. His free hand went flying up in the air. He was still on the phone.
My focus rolled over to Wyatt Carter perched at the counter where he had first been. He stared straight ahead of him at a wall full of inspirational paintings and paintings of random trees near oceans and rivers by no-name artists.
Somehow I knew he wasn't truly studying anything the wall had to offer. The wall had nothing to offer.
I had everything to offer.
Coffee Shop
By Shaire Blythe
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Spur of the moment writing.
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