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Cigarette in hand he sat watching the door. He waited on the door. A knock. Perhaps it would just open. Shadows may be seen through the crack at the bottom. He waited until the cigarette burned itself down to the butt, then he lit another and waited some more. The TV was on, but he didn’t know what was playing. Didn’t care. He was waiting and nothing could deter his focus on the lock. Clicks. He wanted to hear the click of a key forcing the tumblers to fall. His coffee was cold, but he didn’t care. It was better the next day anyways. The window was open, but he ignored the breeze and light and sounds of life outside his tiny apartment. The window doesn’t matter, only the door does.
It was cold. It was night. What it was not was a cold, rainy night. Just cold and night. The car provided shelter from the wind, but the frigid air could not be held at bay completely. The blanket helped, but Jake was not feeling sleep anytime soon. Amy was cuddled up to him in the back seat of the old vehicle, long out of gas and no longer working. Nothing mechanical worked anymore. The world stopped working a while back.
Jake didn’t really stop to ponder why or when, only hoped he could sleep before the sun greeted them, signaling time to start walking again. It’s not like they knew where they were going, just getting away from the things that go bump and growl and bite in the dark. If they could get away.
Did you ever know that drinking coffee with you was a little slice of heaven? That simple brew, tan in my cup like your hand on my arm, was more than I knew life had to offer? Sweetness not only to the tongue, but to my heart? The feelings linger like the smell on my breath of that Colombian bean ground finely and roasted to near perfection. Eventually the cup is tossed out, the heat gone from my belly, and all is a memory left to the wayside, waiting for the garbage men of time and age to steal it away to a landfill far away in the past. The taste lingers for a long while, mixed with smoke and flattering mirrors, but I hope I never forget the way it felt to be sitting in the sun with you and two cups of coffee between us.
Cinny seemed too involved in her book and coffee. Too meaning, she was not in fact involved in either. Well, that’s not true, she did sip the coffee every now and again. Coffee meaning, a sugary sludge with a bit of foam at the top that tasted a little bit like coffee if it were brewed through cotton candy. Without the pink, of course.
He felt a little guilty drinking the coffee. His last couple of dollars, and he used them to help Starbucks spread the empire. Funded the building of one across the street from this one, perhaps. No, he knew they were actually closing stores. But the guilt did not subside, since it was more guilt that he had spent money on himself.
The slightly bitter cup always gave comfort, though. When he felt down, he had some coffee and things seemed flufflier. Maybe he thought if he drank enough this troubles would turn into clouds and mosey by with the breeze. Life would be much simpler were that true, he though taking another gulp. But no, it’s not and life’s more complicated than that.
He decided there wasn’t enough sugar in this cup to make them go away. Not enough in the world.
I realised, then, that much of my life revolved around coffee and rain. I sat, cup from Starbucks (not MY Starbucks, though I’d been to this one before I was nowhere near a regular) in my left hand to keep a Pall Mall company, my right hand on the knee of and underneath my date. I was smiling, as the rain fell down, occassionally blowing in under what little roof we were afforded.
(Maybe I’m not completely done after all, though now I will be paranoid at my newest readership.)
The truth hurts. I suck at this writing thing. I’m done now. Thanks for all the fish.
I hate having writer’s block. I have nothing brewing, stewing, boiling in my brain. Honestly, about 85-90% of the things I write here are about relationships. Longing. Pain. At the moment I’m not particularly pained or longful. I don’t write happiness well, as it’s not a feeling easily described. Pain is universal. It’s pretty much the same for everyone, but happiness is more open to interpretation.
When you only write about tragedy how can you ever write about elation? The happiness I find is in the longing, not the event. A kiss is great but the anticipation, the passion, the heat, the yearning for that kiss is the real emotional event. The buildup is everything in my world. Perhaps that’s my problem.
There is apparently Fallen Angel in my Face and the Devil in my Tongue. This is not true. I have never had Wings that could be ripped out. I am only a man, whose mental anguish shows clear through wrinkles and bloodshot eyes. Through wearily spoken words and sometimes insane rantings. Downtrodden, but not out of the game. There is no devil in my tongue, it is not forked, and I don’t taste the air for my next prey. It has been sharpened by sarcasm and honed by wit, dangerous in their own right but hardly evil. I am pulled by the hand, unwilling, by hardship on the path to salvation through pain. But I protest every step, digging in my heels and clawing at her wrists. I do not seek salvation through pain. In all honesty, I would rather be damned than suffer more trouble. Tired, I plod along. If there is one thing I am good at it’s getting through despite it all. I always come out the other end of the forest to stand in the sun before the next trees are seen on the horizon, dark and dreadful. I am no angel or devil, only a man. A man who needs a day off.
Life marched on outside my window. From my desk I can see the sky, from red to pale to blue to black, just beyond the trees. The headlights meander by on the highway beyond those trees and underneath the sun’s path. So many people, all on their way with their own lives. But they have nothing to do with me and mine. Snow sits in the corners of the curbs, gathering in small piles that will soon be water and finally sheets of ice when the sun finishes it’s work and the moon clocks in for the graveyard shift.
But someone always closes the blinds, taking away my sunshine and sky.
speak no evil