BURN (Wattys2015?)

corner store

Tap. Tap. Tap.
Puff. Puff. Puff.
A breath, a rhythm, a pause. Repeat.
Crushed cigarettes blossom from the ground like nicotine flowers, and the stench of stale smoke and sweat sticks to the walls.
He leans back against the tired, faded brick, because the plastic lawn chair moans and shudders anytime someone pays it a visit. Closes his eyes and breathes, incessantly tapping his foot to a rhythm of his own, something new and fresh that no one has heard of before.
His mouth had been stretched into that processed grin you find in stores, one that's forced and overworked and fake. But he's the type who's always smiling, so the corners of his lips twitch impatiently until he flashes a nervous grin into the lonely air.
He brings a cigarette to his satisfied mouth and inhales a little bit of chill. His bony fingers are tipped with dirtied nails, and he makes a mental note to clean them.
Why was he here? He thought. No, not a question of existence that we humans often struggle to fathom, but the simple question of location. Why was he there, behind the grocery/pharmacy, one of the big chain brands that seem to find their way into the hearts of small towns, killing the small business economy? Why was he smoking his last cigarette (and why did it seem like every ciagrette he smoked was his last?) there behind the factory-gray building, near the employee entrance where the pavement was cracked and the grass was dead because no one really cared about appearances there?
He had loads of reasons to be there, but he simply concluded he was there because it was his cigarette break. He didn't want to think about why he really was there. Because he had lost it and run as fast as he could away from all his problems, hoping that a change of pace would be good for him.
No one should have bothered him. The other employees weren't on break, they'd be systemically slaving away in the air conditioning, and no one else would know of his spot.
Except someone did.
Someone saw the tired young man with the red apron uniform and the chemical breath, shaking in the summer evening.
"Hello," someone said. "Do you have a minute?"
The young man frowned, and nodded, tossing the cigarette on the ground and stepping on it, crushing the last fire and life out of it. It joined it's brothers on the dated pavement, a mausoleum of bad choices and bad health.
"You are loved."
"What?" Surprise, and apprehension fizzles like a freshly opened wine bottle.
"God loves you. No matter how horrible you might think you've been, He loves you and forgives you. If you want Him to."
A bitter laugh, a cautious eye, and a shaking hand.
"Your God is not for me. And trust me, He doesn't love me."
"Why do you think that?"
"Too much bad stuff has happened. A 'lovimg' God wouldn't let people starve or suffer so much. He would have done something."
"He did do something. He created us, didn't he?"
"What?"
"Live like angels of apathy who tell ourselves it’s alright, 'somebody else will do something'."
"What is that?"
"Stop saying 'Why doesn't God fix this?'. Why don't you fix it?"
"Well...I--"
"He loves you, and forgives you. You're not happy now, I can see it."
Footsteps shuffle away, and he runs a hand through his hair, biting a trembling lip.
"Wait!" He calls, as the someone who spoke to him when no one should have shrinks into the distance. There's a pause and a heavy breath. The tapping that had become background noise stops abruptly, which sends a jolt of boldness coursing through him. "I get off work soon. Can we...I mean, do you want to talk some more? Coffee maybe? I don't know."
A nod, a plan, and then back to the tapping. But it's a different beat, a different tune. Curiosity and a silly thing called hope that maybe there is more laces into the notes of this beat.
Because maybe there is more.