Coffee with Wilde

Chapter 2

"It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious" - Oscar Wilde

The cafe was almost empty the next week, yet Athena found herself drawn, like a moth to a flame, to Klade's table. He nodded slightly, as she sat down.

Instead of his awkward oversized trench coat, he was wearing his school uniform, still with the boots. His maroon tie sat halfway down his chest, and in one angry movement he ripped it off, and tossed his to the side while shrugging off his matching maroon blazer.

"You should have kept that on boys who wear blazers automatically get a plus two," she said, sipping her drink.

"You should keep your mouth shut, it'll give you an automatic plus ten," he said.

She kicked him in the shin, causing him to let out a howl of pain and to spit out some of his water all over fresh page. The five occupants of the cafe whipped their heads in their direction, as their conversations died down.

Athena held up her hand, opening to her mouth to apologise before closing it, ducking her head and continuing to write.

Kwan made his way over to the table on his break. "What happened?" he hissed, so the couple next to them couldn't hear him.

"He was being a dick," Athena said.

"Well she was being annoying," Klade said.

"I swear, every time you open your mouth all I hear is a three year old in big boy's clothing," Kwan said, patting Klade's cheek causing him to blush. "Can I get you nutjobs anything?"

"Some ice for my shin," Klade said.

Kwan laughed as he headed back to the counter and began to wipe it down. Klade stared after him before scribbling something down.

"Why don't you just ask him out?"

"Because the thought of rejection is something, I don't want to comprehend," he replied.

She gave him a sad smile, as he simultaneously rolled his eyes, running a hand through his hair, ruffling it.

"What do you write?" she asked.

Putting his pencil down he looked up, his eyes meeting hers. "Angsty poetry, the odd political political satire, but now that Abbott's out of power I'm struggling to find material," he said. "I suppose common courtesy says I should ask the same question."

"Short stories and the occasional novella, realistic fiction and historical fiction on the odd occasion."

"Short stories, I take it you get distracted easily, you never really seem to be here, you're always in another space. It adds to your Plath-like quality."

"Yes I exemplify her happier poems, like 'Cinderella', most of the time."

"You couldn't be Cinderella even if you wanted to be."

"I know, I don't do princesses."

"So you're straight then."

"I'm a feminist intellectual, and I swear you are asking to be kicked again."

For the first time in three weeks he let out a laugh, loud, boisterous and deep. Covering his mouth with his fingers, he attempted to smoulder the chuckles elicited from his lips.

She shook her head, and continued to drink her coffee. "I knew I should have gone with, 'never try to trick me with a kiss'. Bloody hell it wasn't that funny," she said.

Finally, he stopped and within a second he was back to his usual robotic state.

Biting her lip, she leant back, bringing her muse to mind. His eyes weren't like the depths of the ocean, they were more like the murky depths of a Nordic bog, that was ironic considering he was Danish. Her prose had gone from 'She Walks in Beauty' to 'My Mistress Eyes are Nothing Like the Sun. That could work, she thought, If all else fails call it satire.

His eyes were like the depths of a Nordic bog which stared into her soul, breaking away the layers she had achieved in hiding from everyone else, all in a matter of seconds.

Yes that's satire, you can't get any more cliche than that, she thought, flipping to a new page.

The cacophony of pen scratches, the tapping of computer keys and the whistling of the coffee machine, had become the comforting sounds of her subconscious. Relaxing in the chair, Athena twirled her blonde hair, as she pictured the boy of his dreams. Another cliche to write in her story. After this no one would ever take her seriously as a writer.

Forty minutes later Klade packed up his bag, grabbed his blazer and tie from the chair and stood up, his head almost hitting the roof of the small alcove, grabbing his Opal card out of his pocket.

"I'll see you next week," he said.

"Next week sure, bye Wilde," she responded with a wave.

"Bye Plath."  

A/N: I hope you enjoyed these guys are so much fun to write. Please vote and tell me what you think. Thanks for reading :)