coffeeshope blues 001

She entered the coffeehouse, she made her way through the sparsely populated cafe to her regular table. She didn't notice a single new face. Its not like she new every patron. She was just good at recognizing faces, and cataloging them. She had seen her fair share of faces to know you can judge a book buy its cover.

“the usual?” the barista asked while preparing her coffee

“knock it up a notch will ya” she said

“you do know we-” their eyes met

“fuck, okay so it was a stupid question” he said a little flustered.

“here, knocked the fuck up” he said putting an E.L. dark roast, black, inhabiting a, to-go cup down on the table. “i'm sure it'll happen any day now” he said devilishly. She mockingly laughed, and grumbled under her breathe, a few obscenities. He ignored her and went back to his post.

Her usual spot, in her newly found coffeehouse, if new was a month or two. As always was a dark corner next to a window. She hated how everyone, even herself, congregated, around the windows. It was night but the streets where well lit. The cafe had, a quaint little glow about it. Its lights were used, more for mood lighting then anything else. The music, which she swore vaguely danced with the light, was tuned to a non-commercial, mellow station; she liked it a lot more then

There was a couple that was starting to become more or less regulars. Both had a ring, hanging from a chain,which itself, hung around their necks. Not sure what that means and she really did not care; it was late and the both looked so very droll. Maybe she will, disassemble them, on later date she thought.

The barista was tall and lanky, but had the posture of a man eater, that and the fact that after getting sick of being bullied high school, he broke one of his bullies legs in six places; realism can get boring. More like two or three places. But it did happen. Anyway, if his posture doesn't detour you his reputation will. they had that stereotypical barista relationship; if stereotypical did to much drugs, and thought it was a bag of centipedes.

The other patron was most definitely new, he would sneak a look every-time my eyes were diverted. She just glared at him till he accidentally stumbled into making eye contact.

“stop fucking looking at me” she said with the laziest of yells, peppered with enough, frustration, to get the point across “i'm not interested”

Skipping the headlights and moving into the collusion. She had never seen someone back up their shit so fast. She felt pretty good about it. Up until, she realized she forgot to take the change jar. she quickly turned around with enough, skill from repetition, to dodge the first coin.

“this is getting old”

“your a bitch you know that?”

“that's why you love me so much”

“no, its because you pay my bills, and love” he said whipping a few coins at her.

“is a strong word” he concluded with on last toss.

“you owe me two pennies for that last one.”

“oh my god are you ever going to give that up.” she grumbled to completion.

“i bet there are more people who don't know what a penny is then do.”

“let alone its inefficiency” she paused “yeah I don't know were that word came from either.”

They decided to go about their business. She checked her watch, it was getting late. The couple had left around the time that he started whipping coins at her. She pulled out a notebook and started writing. While she wrote or scribbled, something into the book, she would occasionally look out the dingy window or at her, old fashion watches, which she could never figure out.

She checked the watch out of habit. She was a bit of a technophobe, actually one of those few, who got dropped on their heads as child, and still used pagers. Basically she didn't like to be tracked. She wondered how many people actually did use pagers, and if they really did get dropped on their heads.

The few words sprinkled, throughout the clustered chaos, she had written could easily be thematically structured, into somewhat of a lyrical mess. She stuck her pen-hand up and did i kind of air traffic controller type of motion. Sometimes this was a immediate, and at other times, it never happened. Short pause, then the music was changed, to something, she found more appealing. She moved a few, little stringlets, of letters to the preceding page in her notebook. Then she arranged the chaos into words, then into sentences. With a catastrophic doodle thrown into the mix, here and there.

a bonfire, of books

as visionaries, cook

threatening, a world

underfoot, a murder

of two crows, leaving

educations bones, a

constitution, from

a corporate, tomb

unknown to human

souls, regardless of robs

She spent more time checking her manual watch, then looking out the window. She was going to have to start wearing digital one. Or a phone. Can they track you on a digital watch? She would have preferred prioritizing the window. It was easier to check your watch, while hunched over writing, then to straighten up and look out the window. Being in the zone at that time she, deemed it a worthy excuse, forgetting the facts, such as her being lazy.

The barista checks the time on his watch and the one in the coffeehouse. He looks ather starring out the window. He sighed.

“i got to close down for the night.” he reluctantly said “you want another nut-kicker?”

“yeah, sure why not” she sighed “knock me the fuck up”

she paid the barista for her coffee, and grabbed her coffee.

“I guess we will be seeing each other tomorrow?” the barista said with a little to much certainty. she just grumbles “yeah, yeah” and with a few gestures she walks out the door. the barista shuts the lights of and flicks the closed switch; then goes about cleaning up the coffeehouse.