Hunched over bistro tables rolling the cigarette about in a dance of deceitful defiance, convincing my cup to remain full of coffee, I reach for another match.
They walk in with a traditionally late strut, nodding their greeting. I didn’t care to move as their usual demeanor of artist’s arrogance didn’t move me. They sat after an emphatic plop of their pens and notes and I was to read every last one.
Somewhere along the night interest waned, passing by the black silken mud infested with a creamy swirl, an insistence of those too timid to venture.
Again another night ends its reign at the coffee house, this time there are people I’ve never seen and Abbas. He smokes his damned clove cigarettes that clog your senses with a musky stench that bullies the finest of sweet fragrances into submission.
I’ve drunk maybe five cups of my usual ghastly drug, before their arrival, my mind wrestles with beans and memories. Then she came to fill their cups. Before I could motion the waitress “I’ve had my fill”, my cup is filled again as I reach for another match in a cyclical habit that is regretfully undying. The clove scent just dissipated by the charm of the aroma she drew along, moving my loss of thought. They noticed her. I noticed her. My reasons were not as obvious. Although my appreciation for beauty is intact, I found her approach uneven for her position. She was in need of something not found at an all-night café. I knew her. Not by name but by stance.
Just as my thoughts shifted to her presence she stopped, retracting the pot in a slow manner careful not to scold and looked.
Feeling the stare, I looked up, she knew I had the answers but knew I couldn’t help. And she returned to her uncomfortable routine.
Then I began to read the notes of failed writers and the moves of an unfortunate woman. Sometime before she landed here, her cascading black Bedouin hair brushed her shoulder a time too many and identified her all too often. She couldn’t hack at it with enough haste.
That gave her limits notice and she began her journey. Her approach to our table was a unique variance to her exit. Coming, she was confident, charged, and powerfully live. Leaving she was morbidly tame.
Her walk wore her down as the tally of the night and the weight of those ancient accessories took their toll. That tired smile ventured on in spite of the challenges befallen her. The read was shorter than I anticipated; that stance didn’t have the legs for long stories.
Her one attempt to escape was cut short, a guilt-ridden run-away from home. Delicately worn hands showed me the timeline. It was painful, but just a mild step on the road to come. Her days were ahead as she realizes there was power in the attempt. After her shift she gathers notes on napkins to merge into stories.
She will be the writer she had always hoped to be. As for those who infest their coffee, those days may never come.
