The Barista

I walked into the new coffee house. A fireplace stood in the middle. The windows were very big.

"Um, could I just have a small house blend?"

"Sure. Do you want room for cream?"

"No thanks."

"Okay."

I turned and set my bag down. In the corner, an woman played a harp. Each table was full of people — each staring into a laptop.

After sitting, I plugged in my headphones. My screen lit up — I began to write. After a few moments, I went to sip from my coffee, but found no cup. I glanced up. The barista with brown hair stood behind the counter, coffee in left, wave in right. She smiled.

I took the mug from her, and our fingers brushed over each other for a moment.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

I smiled. She was very beautiful.

Difficult

I stared at the laptop screen. My vision blurred. I didn't know what to type.

I closed the lid, and thought about Times New Roman. I wondered who came up with it.

Empty

We stepped outside of the coffee house. The air was brisk. She lit two cigarettes.

"He said it wasn't an essay."

"Yeah?"

I stared at my feet and blew smoke.

"There just wasn't enough, I guess."

"I could see that. It was pretty empty."

She teetered back and forth to stay warm and conversation continued — she spoke through chatters. We finished smoking. She dropped her cigarette. I flicked mine.

Walk

I closed my laptop and put it in my bag. I put my sweatshirt on, zipped up, and slipped my headphones on.

-click click click-

I scrolled my iPod to Radiohead, selecting the album Kid A.

"Everything In Its Right Place"

Pulsing in my ears — I walked to class.

Exchange

I pedaled hard up the hill. I felt the buzz of my phone in my pocket.

*outside of 303. am I right?*

I balanced biking and texting.

*315. be ther*—

Swerved away from a parked car. I finished the text.

*315. be there soon.*

She waited and I flew around the next corner, and pedaled the last block to my apartment. I skidded in the driveway, and bounced my head back and forth. I heard the cocking of a gun — door shut.

"Hey."

I turned.

"Oh, hey. Sorry. I didn't see you."

"That's okay. Do you have it?"

I pulled out the collected works of Neil Simon and handed it to her.

"Here you go. Sorry it took me like, a year to get it to you."

"That's okay. I just needed it for a class and didn't want to buy a new book."

I laughed.

"Okay."

She went back to her car and opened the back door. She pulled out tupperware.

"Here you go. I just baked some apple crisp."

I jumped.

"Yeah! Oh my god, thanks!"

She laughed.

"Yeah, don't worry about it. I'll get the tupperware back from you in a year."

I smiled, and with that, she got in her car and drove away. I stood in the driveway, and felt warmth from the apple crisp container in my hand.

Two Cups

I knocked on the door.

"Hold on a minute."

I stood in the hallway and stared at my feet. One hand held two travel coffee mugs. The other held breakfast — two apples, grapes, and some pineapple. She liked fruit. The door opened.

"Hey, sorry, come in."

"It's okay."

I walked in and threw down my stuff.

"He slept for most of the morning, but he's starting to whine." She held him as she talked. He was seven months old and had very big eyes. I adopted my best baby talk.

"'ello baby 'ello. How are yaaa?" I leaned in and his big eyes widened. She laughed.

"I can hold him."

I reached and felt his weight. His eyes widened more. We went and sat on the couch and watched TV. That 70s Show was on. He sunk into my lap, and I felt his heartbeat.

Conversation

The screen blurred. My eyes watered.

"What do you think, Bill?"

He stared at me for a moment.

"Well, what do you think?"

He continued to stare. This time he licked his lips.

"Well?"

He stood up.

"Meow."

He sat back down.

"Yeah, that's what I figured."

I realized it was time for bed.

Food

My phone buzzed. Text message.

*Supper at 5?*

I smiled. I hoped to see her this week, but thought she wouldn't be around.

*I work till 5. How about 5:10?*

Buzz.

*Great! Subway?*

*Sounds good to me. Best surprise ever!*

I put my phone in my pocket. I wonder what she'll be wearing. Whatever it is will probably be pink.

Lock up

I walked out of the English building after class. Bright. I thankfully took my sweatshirt off before I left class. I unlocked my bike.

"You gotta get yourself one of these," a man said.

"What?" I stopped, glanced up.

"See how mine is clipped to the bike?" he pointed to his bike lock, the same model as mine but attached to his bike.

"Oh, yeah. Okay." I felt uneasy as the White Sox hatted man stared.

"Yeah. I'm in, and now I'm out. You're still unlooping yours." He hopped on his thick tired bike and rolled away, cackling.

I wrapped up my lock and put it in my bag. I rode to work. Is unlooping a word? I didn't know the answer.

Cheeseburgers

I called her again for the third time, a hurried voice answered.

“I know, I know, I know. I’m coming. I couldn’t get the stupid straightener to work. None of the outlets worked and I don’t know why. I’m getting in my car now.”

“Okay.” I hung up. She was always late — always behind — always. I grabbed my bag, put on my shoes, locked my apartment. The air felt good, like it might rain later. I strolled down the path in front and sat on the curb, stared at the sky. Cloudy. No sunglasses needed. After a few moments, I heard familiar squeaks of a car and stood. The driver’s window was halfway down, and I smiled as I walked to the other side and got in the car.

“Hey.”

No answer to my hello, instead a sad smile. I noticed her hair a bit messy, tied in a vertical pony tail — I remembered the broken straightener.

“I’m sorry, did you need to go inside?” I asked, slightly confused.

“Why? Does this look stupid?” Her voiced carried a surprised concern as she pointed to her hair.

“Well, why is it straight up?”

“What?”

“Your hair. Why is it straight up in the air?”

“Oh. I slept like this… What?”

“Oh. Okay. Well, let’s go.”

“It looks stupid, doesn’t it.”

“No no, it’s fine. I promise. Let’s leave.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, seriously. It’s fine.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

(A pause.)

“I look like a dweebis, don’t I?”

“A what?”

“A dweebis. I look like a dweebis with my hair like this.”

“I don’t even know what a dweebis is.”

“Me. That’s what it is. I look like a dweebis. But thanks for wearing that stupid shirt, so I don’t feel like the only dweebis.”

“Whatever. This shirt isn’t stupid. And you don’t look like a dweebis.”

She put the car in gear, shared more stories of broken outlets, drove to the café. We both ate hamburgers. They were supposed to have cheese, but the waitress forgot.

air

He lives on a mountain in a cabin with his wife. Every morning, he wakes early before her, kisses her on the forehead, and makes coffee. He still wears the blue robe his mother gave him years ago—it’s ripped along the bottom. He sits on his deck drinking coffee, breathing in mountain air. He writes in his journal. Sometimes his writing feels good, other times not. When not, he reads. Reading shows him what he’s doing wrong.

His wife likes to decorate. She hangs brightly colored paintings on the walls. She buys a variety of trinkets on all their travels—ranging from statues to rugs. Each has a story, the voodoo doll from South America or the rug from Africa. He enjoys them. He enjoys her. She takes care of him. She makes lunch and they eat fresh tomato and avocado sandwiches.

In the afternoon, he drives down the mountain in his jeep. He listens and sings poorly with Bob Dylan. In town, he stops at the grocery store, picking up milk and bread and more avocados. Everyone knows him. He says hi, politely sharing thoughts on the weather. Outside, he smokes a cigarette. He goes home to share dinner with his wife. They eat fish.

At night, he sits on his deck eating mangos and drinking coffee, this time decaf. He lights tiki torches and candles. He writes in his journal. His writing feels good, so he doesn’t read. He joins his wife in bed and kisses her on the forehead before he drifts to sleep.

He wakes in a lonely bed to the screaming of his alarm clock. He hasn’t cleaned his apartment for months. He stumbles down the hall, hung over from cheap wine. The grime on the floor feels scratchy against his feet. Pushing play on his record player, he listens to Bob Dylan. He washes his face and makes coffee. He writes for a newspaper. He hates the newspaper. He walks to work, needing mountain air.