My Dear Laurens (Lams)

A. Hamilton

The warmth of a Philadelphia summer caused two large double doors to stay propped open with two small wedges of wood. The view of the street outside depicted small groups of people dressed in Sunday clothes, making their way to different shops and restaurants, picking their poison between paying for food, temporary possessions, or both. If a passerby were to glance past the wide-open threshold, they would notice a lonesome café. While most beverage-crafting shops were packed with people needing just about anything to wet their lips and cool an overheating body, this place was empty. It was small, and honestly, much too small compared to the over-emphasized buildings squeezing its sides.

Imagine a little boy needing to be protected by his two-time heavyweight champion parents and then you'll understand the sight. However, size was not the only alarming difference between the stores. The parents at the little boy's side were constructed of wood, and lacking in a paint job. They were the parents that knew the character of a person was all that mattered. Appearance was only something the rich worried about, while they spent time building authenticity and any traits a hard-working American would possess. Like brawn and the ability to sell guns. However, their child chose a different path. A prettier path, with quieter intentions.

He was made of wood as well but painted medium blue with light blue double doors. He was one-fourth the size of his parents next to him, just large enough for any person of six feet to walk comfortably through without hitting their heads (just don't let anyone any taller come in). While his height was lesser than his parents', his width was not. His parents stood so close to him, protecting him, it appeared as though they might make him burst.

Ultimately, he was strange. The other kids knew he didn't fit in, and by the lack of customers inside, they made sure he knew as well. But two people didn't let his appearance nor the slow-roast heat stop them from getting one black coffee and one water.

A small metal table - appearing to have been crafted by a fairy with too much time on their hands, assuming the bright purple round top and the pink legs collected at the middle, then fanning out into the shape of branches shrouded in vines and flowers – stood at the left corner of the shop closest to the front doors. The wall curled around the side of one man, who faced away from the entrance with a mug of hot coffee in his hands, and stopped soon enough for the man across to sip his water and take in the view while the sun beat on his forehead. This man was Aaron Burr.

The man who couldn't care less to have his eyes blinded or to watch people smile and drift happily from store to store was Alexander Hamilton.

"You can't keep drinking that, Alexander," Burr said, shaking his head with a half-smile.

"I can and I will. Don't underestimate me." Alexander lifted the mug to his lips, and with half a cup left, he chugged until it was empty. Once he finished, he set the cup back onto the table and flashed Burr a full smile.

He folded his hands. "So, you told me once about a woman you fell in love with. You mentioned her after my wedding."

Burr shifted in his seat.

Alexander's eyes flicked to Burr's points of growing anxiety but continued. "There have been some new developments, haven't there?"

"Well," Burr said, keeping his water closer to his body. "We have... made some changes."

Alexander leaned back.

"We had a child together."

Alexander leaned far forward. "You... wow, that's amazing, Burr. Congratulations." He reached a hand around and grasped Burr's shoulder. "I'm happy for you. So, everything was solved, then? Is her husband still around?"