French Roast

Dame walks into my office looking like she just woke up from the last bad night of far too many. A fresh winter gust wafted in with her. The bell rang a bit delayed from her entrance, and her head seemed to split in two for her. She cowered like a cat in a bathtub, holding her hands over her ears before rubbing her cheeks for warmth. Her hands were the only thing bare on her aside from her face.

She was gorgeous. Through and through. I felt like I could see her very soul. Broken hearted, and needing a win. She was looking for me to find it. Her hair, was gold, reminding me of the actress Jean Harlow. Something about her seemed so familiar. I felt destined to help her.

"I'm searching for something," she said with a slight quiver. I registered an air of coldness. "Do you mind putting something else on the radio? This is a bit drab." I realized that she was right immediately. Without a moment of hesitation, I switched my music over from the bossa nova station to the hard bop jazz station. One of my favorites.

The loud machine sounds began to tear through her head like splinters as she cowered again.

"Hey! I want everyone to take five! And shut that racket off for Chrissakes!" The grinding stopped almost immediately, and her spirits seemed to liven up just as suddenly. "You were saying, ma'am?"

"I was saying I was searching for something,” she replied enigmatically.

"Right. And what might that some thing be,” I asked her quickly, not letting her get a dramatic pause? She glanced at me suspiciously before ensuring nobody else was inside our little jazz bubble of sound.

"Well, see, my husband, he died last night."

"Um, I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be. Not my point. He died without having told me where he got this wonderful drink he let me try last year. It tasted just like fall. Which is how he died, and now I just want to taste his last moments. Could you please? I've been told that you're the only one in town that can!"

"I'm sorry, did you say that your husband fell," I managed to ask before she began to dance with a slight sway. She shook her finger at me teasingly. I couldn't help but blush. 

“We aren’t talking about my late husband, Mr.…”

“Just Sam will do.”

“We aren’t talking about my late husband, Mr. Justsamwilldo. We are talking about you making me that beverage of the fall I so seek!” She spun around as she took her coat off. It was getting rather warm there. She revealed a beautiful sleek black dress with a white trim. She noticed me admiring her and the air about her shifted. It was as though a gust of wind had swirled through, even took some stray leaves and tossed them around a bit. I admit that I was enthralled.

“Ma’am, I don’t rightly know what beverage you are going on about, but all I got to offer you is a standard French roast.” I sternly told her as I went to take her coat for her. She brushed me away and gave me a cold glance.

“That sounds like you might say something rude about my heritage,” she turned away from me and walked over to a chair where she gently placed her coat. 

“Why on earth would I say something about your heritage,” I asked her, incredibly confused.

“I assumed that you incorrectly assumed that I was French. I’ve been told I have a very French nose.” She tipped her head back slightly to accentuate her profile. I suppose to show that her nose was very nose-like as well. 

“Well, Mrs…”

“Davis, but you can call me Miss now, I suppose.” She moved over closer to me again. “Can I tell you a little secret,” she asked me quietly when she got just close enough for me to see her pores?

“Um, sure, Miss Nowisuppose..” I could feel myself perspiring. I wanted to check my odor but it was far too late at that point. At least I had remembered deodorant. Or was that the morning I had forgotten? No matter, she never mentioned a smell. 

“I want to be alone,” she whispered ever so softly in my ear before pushing me away with a loud sigh. I looked down to see that she had placed a small piece of folded paper in my hand. “Don’t you look at that until I’m long gone, you hear?” I nodded as I tucked the paper into my shirt pocket. I couldn’t explain this strange hold she had over me. As though I was acting in a play she was directing my whole life leading up to this performance. The look in her eyes did not betray that notion. Those eyes were like wisps of water. Caught up in a current of whatever was happening just between the two of us at that moment. 

“How exactly did your husband, um die” I managed to ask her? Breaking the trance. She recoiled with a puzzled look. “Listen, you can either go along with this or I can leave.” She gave a wave of her hand over her face and then began cooly, “I’m looking for the taste of fall in a cup! To honor my husband, sorry, my late husband’s, tumbling demise. We had been drinking, you see. I hardly remember the whole thing, but when I woke up, he was blue. We all grieve differently, don’t we? I suppose I should be on my way,” she nodded toward her coat on the chair in the corner. I went and grabbed it for her. “I’ll take that French roast to-go if that’s still possible,” she managed a somber corner smile. 

“Oh, of course! Here is your coat, I’ll get right on that for you,” I helped her with her coat as we walked towards the door. I opened it with one arm for her as the cold winter snow began blowing in. 

“I don’t actually have any French roast, but I do have a bad French joke,” I tell her as she steps outside. She looked at me again with those eyes. Like I had said the magic words.

“Well, Mr. Justsamwilldo, let’s hear it then,”

“A woman walks into a cafe in Paris. She tries to order a drink but instead just gets insulted by the Barista. She got a French roast.” I could see her eyes flutter with mild amusement.

“Thanks for playing along with me. See ya around maybe. Maybe sometime next fall.” I watched her walk away as I stood in the dirty snow. I pulled the paper out of my shirt pocket and unfolded it. It read:

“Thanks for playing along with my little spy game. Sometimes we just need a little make-believe in our lives. I just wanted to visit my husband's shop one last time before it was finished being demolished. -B.” I turned to look up at where the sign used to be. I know it used to be a coffee shop. I don't know if the original owner actually died, or if he had any relation to that woman. But I do know that I'll never forget those eyes.