Cold Coffee

Prologue

She sat tentatively down on the chair with the table next to the window, her mug of tea sloshing dangerously as she manouevred herself into a more comfortable position. She was slouched on the creaking, brown armchair, with bad posture and her impossibly dark, long hair was shielding her face. It hung messily over her shoulder, streaks of purple swirling among the strands.

Along with definitive eyebrows, were jaded green eyes that he caught one glimpse of, as she repositioned herself on the chair. They were the kind of eyes that you saw were once sparkling and bright, but time, and experiences, and people, and experiences with people, and really life itself, would gradually fade all the colour, vibrant, like happiness, until all that was left was grey. Melancholic.

Her skin was ghostly white, like she was sick, or maybe dead, and it was a frightening contrast to her thick hair. She sighed a lot and swung her legs around under the table aimlessly. Every minute or so, she would place her pale hand on the side of the porcelain cup, just to check if the tea was still hot. She didn't drink it though, just stared blankly out at the bustling city street.

He looked down, temporarily engaging himself in something other than the strange new girl. He thought back to when she had ordered that cup of tea, about five minutes ago. She had walked up ungraciously, tripping on a loose floorboard and catching herself on the counter. She hadn't wanted anything from the menu, but a cup of this foreign tea like,

"Uh um, hi, um do you have that, ah, that healtheries tea brand, the, like, uh, the b-be happy tea?"

It had taken her a minute or so to gather up the words for the simple question. The tea that she had asked for was not on the menu, and he was slightly surprised by her request. Her eyebrows furrowed as she made her request, looking up nervously to him with squinted eyes, like she was expecting some kind of abrasive response. Like she thought he would hit her, or yell at her, for even thinking to ask about something not on the menu. How the habit must have developed made him sad.

She was wearing a large navy overcoat, that was obviously much too big for her, and she fumbled around with the belt loops anxiously, as she waited for a reply.

"Or was it the, uh, be calm? Tea, I mean? I'm sorry, I can't actually remember."

She added that on unexpectedly, and her rasping voice sounded so loud suddenly, like the whole cafe had just shut up. It gave him a small fright, and his greasy, dark hair had flopped onto his forehead when he jumped slightly. He had looked at her carefully, as well as forgetting her request. He did admire her sharp cheekbones and the little ridge in her nose, and he did so much, that he only snapped out of his daydream when somebody loudly cleared their throat.

He grabbed a tattered leather booklet and a pen, and began vigorously scribbling words onto the paper. He held the book up to her face and she had to take a step back to let her eyes re-adjust, to read what he had written.

I THINK THERE MAY BE SOME UPSTAIRS, IF YOU COULD JUST WAIT ONE MOMENT.

He held up one finger in a kind gesture, and dropped the book on the counter with a short slapping sound, before turning on his heel and pushing open the door him.

She could hear some faint yelling and pounding in the ceiling above her head, like footsteps, for many moments before he returned, a little breathless, with a sachet of tea in one hand. He held it up in triumph to show her, with a proud grin, and then he switched on the kettle. He harshly began pressing various buttons on the register and then pointed to the number shown on the screen above it.

Her overcoat flapped as she dug through her pockets for coins. She managed to bring out two one-dollar notes, a half empty packet of cigarettes, two quarters, and a dime, and although that was at least a dollar below what he originally charged, he took the money with a gracious smile and politely told her not to bother, when she went back to trying to find "any more goddamned money" in her jeans pockets.

She thanked him a really unneccesary amount of times, a visible stutter in her words. He waved her away, to where she then took her place on the worn leather chair. And when he looked up four hours later, after finally breaking from his memory, she was still there.

Sitting in the same position, cup of tea untouched, with tears now rolling down her porcelain cheeks.