Coffee House
A short story I wrote based on a prompt for NPR, I was originally going to send this in, but never got around to it. There’s always another writing challenge out there somewhere, so no harm.
…
My plan was simple. First, I would enter the cafe with a newspaper. Then I would get my coffee and loiter, like this was a regular thing for me. I don’t know why I cared so much. I guess I still don’t. Deep down, I wanted to prove I was a normal person. Normal people went to cafes, right?
I crept to the coffee-shop, wary to not seem too eager. I blew that when I pushed the door, rather than pulled. The loud rattling of the door in its frame turned all eyes to me, both inside and out of the shop. I flushed, realized my mistake, and then pulled with more force than I needed to. I was off to a good start.
There was a line to the counter and a small stage where a guitarist was getting ready to play that soft kind of music that I call background noise. The red tables stood out against the brown and green tones throughout the shop, like mushrooms on a forest floor. Even with all the attempts at atmosphere through color and music, I felt nothing for it. It felt all too artificial, like my presence.
At the end of the line, I gave myself a proper amount of distance from the person in front of me. My foot tried to tap while I was waiting, but I willed it into submission. I didn’t want to seem annoyed or impatient to others. In my head I rattled off what I was going to order.
“Sir, may I take your order?”
I nearly bolted to the counter and apologized. I was terrified some customers behind me were shooting dirty glares for wasting their time.
“No problem. How can I help you?”
I froze.
“I’d like a coffee, please.”
“Sure, what style?”
My eyes moved up to the menu and I glanced around at all the items, names I couldn’t understand and numbers in columns that grew in amount from left to right. I felt my eyes rattle in my head.
“Uh. Large black, please.”
I didn’t even like black coffee.
I paid my three dollars and sat glumly at one of the red eye-sores. I saw one of the big, comfortable chairs with the leather and padding, but I stayed away. I didn’t want to look like I was struggling to get out of it later.
My paper was open to a section I wasn’t really paying attention to; I was more interested in staring at a wall. I heard my name come from the counter and rose to get my drink. I didn’t realize my feet had been wrapped around one of the legs until I went stumbling across the floor, dragging the chair with me. The loud scraping caught everyone’s attention as my fingertips brushed the floor. I felt tears well up in my eyes as I untangled myself from my betrayer. I shuffled to the counter and grabbed my drink silently, terrified of being mocked. I sought sanctuary with the turn-coat chair.
I brought my paper cup to my lips, hesitant. I didn’t know what was worse: the taste, or the searing spears that had assaulted my tongue. I fought a yelp and swallowed my sip. I felt the hot dirt-water scald my throat and the gazes scald my skin.
I left the paper at the table for someone who would actually read it, and dumped my coffee in the trashcan as I made my way out. Maybe this was wasteful, but the bigger waste was my being there. I decided to go back to where I was comfortable.
