Weeping Willow

Chapter Three.

Crane's house is bigger than mine in a very noticeable way. Where my house is family memories and laughter, Crane's is lines and sterile steel. Her parents had their newest house built just this year, all of the memories the old swamp house were erased by heavy balls and the land that held the tree we used to swing on was flattened by the giant tires of a demolition truck.

Crane likes her walk-in closet with it's shiny chandelier but she would take two hours a week with her mom and dad over any piece of marble granite. They do bring her back gifts after each trip, along with the promise that it will be the last long trip they take.

My parents are waiting patiently, my dad in the driver's seat, in front of Crane's house. She's usually at least five minutes late so none of us are surprised when we've been waiting ten. I click the end of my pen and my reach for my notebook. I've recently decided that once this book is full I'm going to start, slowly (very slowly) transferring my poems to my phone. There are a few apps that I can use, one even has a video option so when I finally do get the guts to perform, I could add that too.

As soon as I get one line down on the paper, Crane is bouncing down the walkway and opening the car door. She scoots in behind my mom and touches the bright orange flower pinned into my mom's curly brown hair. My mom smiles and holds onto Crane's hand for a moment before dropping it.

"Sorry, I couldn't find my phone," she says, digging her hand into her purse to check for her lifeline one more time, just to be sure history doesn't repeat itself.

"Are we good to go?" My dad asks, shifting the car into reverse. Crane tells him she's never been more ready in her life and my dad launches into telling us a story, something about Woodstock and the glory days of music.

By the time we arrive at Weeping Willow, the small parking lot is full. The narrow cobblestone streets make it hard to find parking. As my dad passes a corner bakery, a red Prius pulls out of a spot right on the street. My parents cheer playfully and Crane and I laugh along with them. The air is thick with moisture, even in the fall breeze. My hair has started to do that thing where it turns into brown, frizzy, wavy chunks that seem to float, resting on the tips my shoulders.

All of the buildings on the street are connected, each a different color. Weeping Willow's exterior is made up of wide, red bricks. A sign hangs over the entrance by thick yarn. The words Weeping Willow are painted in thick black swirls of paint. A tree, a willow to be exact, is drawn next to the words. It's branches breath life to the words, the roots connecting at the ends of the W's.

When we walk inside, the place is already full. Nearly every inch of the sitting area is full. No chairs, or the usual couches are in sight. Everyone is standing, shoulder to shoulder surround the wooden stage. The brick behind the stage is painted a deeper red and in the center is a chalkboard, names scribbled down the center.

I follow my parents and Crane through the crowd toward the coffee bar. My notebook is clutched to my chest and my adrenaline is rushing through me, filling me with ideas. Creativity seems to flow from beneath the cracks in the old brick walls.

Stretching his neck to glance around the small shop, "I'll find us four good seats," he looks around, remembering there are no seats tonight and winces with amusement in his eyes.

"You two get the drinks?" my dad suggests. I look around, glad that Crane and I were given the easier task of the two.

Weeping Willow is the most hip, most crowded coffee shop in the French Quarter and Maya Crawford is the most soulful, talented and lyrical poet in the south, at least. I'm glad to be moving at a snails pace to the end of a long line for espresso and green tea. Crane sticks her hand into the air and for a moment I think she's going to cut in line or wack someone across the face. 

She doesn't though, she's waving to a tall guy working behind the bar. His hair is messy on his head, dirty blonde with dark roots. A thick strand falls down on his forehead and he looks up at her with a broad smile, his teeth are white and his lips are full.

She grabs my hand and leads me to where he stands. My eyes go to the name written on a small square tag. I'm surprised he's wearing a name tag due to how hip this place seems. Trent is his name. He does look like a Trent.

His eyes meet mine and I force myself to smile back at him. I probably look deranged but I don't know what else to do. He laughs, a light and earthy sound, and I pull myself together. As I come to, I take in his features. His eyes, the deep green of them, this nose, a little big for his face, but somehow makes him cuter. My eyes rest on his smile and the charming way his front teeth sort of overlap in the subtlest of ways. His lips light pink and he's introducing himself to me.

"Chaucer," I manage to say. My voice somehow makes up for my lack of breathing. I'm impressed by my own confidence as I wave back at him.

"Green tea?" He asks, repeating what Crane told him we wanted. He holds up two cups, one blue with white circles printed on the porcelain and the other a bright orange. I point to the bright orange immediately and he nods, seeming to be pleased by my choice. I try not to watch him as he steams the milk for my parent's macchiatos and wipes the moisture from his thick brows.

Crane takes the drinks to my parents, leaving me with Trent. I briefly wonder how she knows him but he tells me before I can ask either of them.

"I'm Jesse's friend," he wipes his hands across the black apron tied around his waist. I sit my notebook on the counter and shake his hand.

"I'm Crane's other half," I say with a smile. He nods his head slightly and laughs, I like the sound.