31 Days of Imperfection

01

write a scene that takes place in a coffee shop

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seattle was known for it's coffee. that and bad weather, but there was apparently some long lost tale of starbucks originating here which caused every teenage girl to approach me and cry about not living here. which while yes, starbucks did open it's first store in seattle, starbucks sucks, and it's not the reason for our coffee fame. at least not all of it.

fortunately for me though, ironically named, soleil, was not famous and would likely never be. it was a quaint cafe seated above a bookstore and on the corner of fifth and welch. soleil was a very peculiar place, and it's owner, rebecca, with her own peculiar decorative influences.

the cafe was a comfortably not-so-modern place, with chalkboard walls covered in doodles of past customers, and one wall only containing the menu, clad in poems of tea and coffee and illustrated designs of scones. there were some maroon colored curtains in the windows, tied off to the sides, allowing the grey sky to illuminate the majority of the cafe the best it could, and cast a shadow that you couldn't really find anywhere else. there were a couple small brown leather couches which were rustic to say the least, and several loveseats conveniently placed in between the romance and mystery section of the bookstore below. but the spot i always took, and was never really taken by anyone else, was the incredibly old, leather armchair seated in the far corner, which was also the darkest, and surrounded only by a dead houseplant and a glass side table with a single wilting rose.

it was sort of a murder investigation gone rogue, and a study which could only belong to the murdered, left alone and abandoned simply to die and dust. and though soleil didn't attract many, and the regular customers were one of the only things keeping it going, rebecca was happy, and so was the barista who served me a chai latte at six oh three on the dot, every day ending in y.

i could happily say soleil was my stomping grounds, and if i ever allowed the name to slip, everyone thought i had just vividly remembered high school french and was reminiscing on the weather we were lacking.

the one day i arrived, dripping wet and shrugging off my red rain coat, at six oh four on a ridiculously rainy tuesday, there was a young man sitting in my armchair, sipping a cup of something steamy with an untouched danish on the glass table, and reading a rather old looking book. so i simply stood there, water dripping off of me and leaving puddles on the floor, and he didn't even look up. and i knew it was silly of me to think the spot would always be reserved for me and a childish thought as well, i was still sort of sad, so i took a seat on one of the conveniently placed loveseats, which unearthed a cloud of dust and only seemed to emphasize my lack of the armchair.

my latte didn't come until six oh eight, and when the barista placed it on the wooden table in front of me, and i had to trudge around the room to find some sugar, my feet swimming inside my converse, the intruder still had not acknowledged me. so i sat back on the loveseat and held my breath so not to suck in a cloud of dust, and pulled out notebook and pencils. i awkwardly shifted around, trying to find a position in which was comfortable, and even though this time i was trying to be quiet, he looked up and watched me as i opened the cover and folded some pages over.

"hello," i said. and i'm pretty sure a look of surprise flickered across his face before he replied.

"hi."

"you're in my seat."

"i'm sorry, i didn't realize your name was written on it."

"it is, under the left arm, thank you."

"well then i guess i'll be moving."

he stood, brushing himself off slightly, and i remained unmoved.

"do you want it or no?"

"yes, but it's your's right now."

"if i wrote my name under the right arm and came in at four fifty-two would that be better for you?"

"yes."

"well then."

he did, and he left.

and i wondered to myself who this mystery man was, and how he thought sort of like me, and why. and maybe i would want to see him again, and that no, four fifty-two was not better for me, because then i wouldn't.

so i asked the barista to watch my latte, and i ran out the door to tell him so.