dateink. (a calum hood story)

03.03.16

when the ink touches your skin //

it takes away the pain within //

and turns it into physical pain //

at least then it will fade.

                  

If not for the cheap coffee and that little corner table with the pretty flowers next to it, I would definitely not be such a frequent visitor at this little local café.

That, and the angel of a waiter whom I wished to be able to call a friend.

I reminded myself of that fact when I walked in the door of Sweet Smiles. Every time I look up at the sweet pink sign above the door, I reconsider my life choices. There were tons of other cafés along this street, ones that most of the students in my school haunt on a daily basis. Yet another reason why I only ever came to Sweet Smiles. God, it was so pink, a baboon would've mistaken the place for its ass.

"Bit late today, eh?" the familiar voice from behind the counter floated.

"Missed me?" I grinned. I turned left and headed toward my usual table without waiting for his reply. Ashton always knew to keep my table unoccupied when he knew I was out of school. Besides, I was such a frequent visitor that the other customers knew to keep the table empty. I thought back to the time two tourists sauntered in and made a beeline for my table when I'd left my seat to go to the bathroom. Well, let's just say they didn't leave with sweet smiles. Ha.

Plopping my bag down on the table, I was careful not to use too much strength or else my laptop would be at stake. Where in the world was I supposed to get the money to repair it? Although my freelance job earned me some money, it was still meagre and barely enough to cover my school fees and daily expenses. Mom tries to give me money sometimes, despite my strong disagreement. By the end of the day, her money would be transferred back to her account. Every single last cent of it.

Getting out of town was the only way I could exercise my independence. Being a poor college student was definitely not fun, but if it meant that I knew I was able to provide for myself without Mom's backing, then I'd still do it all over again in a heartbeat. She scolded me once, saying I was too proud, that someday pride would be what causes me to meet my sad demise. I left the same day, because pride was all I thought I owned. No amount of money would lead to me sacrificing my dignity. I deserved that at least, coming from a family who only knew money, money and money, never thinking that there was more to life than those pieces of green paper. Yes, money was important. It was never my place, however, to use dirty money. Hubris would kill me someday, huh? So be it.

Ashton came by and placed a steaming cup of vanilla latte on the table, offering a small smile. No wonder this place hired him, he smiled all the time.

The stubble of a man who hadn't shaved in a week dotted his chin. I'd suspected for some time that Ashton was unhappy with something that was going on in his personal life. I wished that we were close enough, so that he could share his burden with me and I could try to help him get through it.

An angel like Ashton did not deserve to go through situations that left him serving wrong orders to customers, that left him thinking that the floors had to be mopped every day, and not only on Mondays, like it used to be. Yet his smile never ceased to appear whenever he encountered human interaction. His green-brown eyes hid his inner feelings well, but the smokescreen threatened to break occasionally whenever he was left alone at the counter.

"Thank you," I reached for his hand and squeezed it. I hoped that through a simple gesture, he'd know that I was here for him and he was appreciated. He smiled again, but this time it was full of one emotion only. Gratefulness.

"Waiter."

He left to tend to another customer, and I took out my laptop to finish the article I was assigned to this week. The Duke Times, basically the only newspaper in this town, was finally covering the story on sweet Mrs Schrodinger and the flower shop down this road which she had opened since the beginning of time. Okay, I mean for like, 60 years. That was impressive, right? I'd pestered the editor to let me do the story. Mrs Schrodinger was always so nice to me whenever she ran into me at the café. It was only right that I paid her back by writing a story to let people know what an amazing woman she was.

Only stopping to take occasional sips of my latte, I rushed to finish the story. Okay, done. Now to email it to the editor...

Just as I pressed send, a shadow loomed over me. Knitting my eyebrows together in confusion, I looked up to see a dark brown haired boy staring at me through equally dark eyes, holding a coffee mug, steam spiralling out of it. He was wearing a muscle tank- obviously to show off his muscles, which he definitely had. But what was interesting was the ink covering those muscles. Lines of numbers filled the canvas of his caramel skin. 07.03.08, 26.12.09... They were dates, I realised suddenly. He spoke, leaving me to release the breath I hadn't noticed I'd been holding.

"Hey, um... can I sit with you? Every other table is taken..." He blushed.

And as a girl who never liked sharing tables, even bus seats with strangers, I shocked myself by smiling and saying: "Sure."

But as a girl who never left her curiosity hungry, a thought formed in my mind. "Only if you tell me what your tattoos mean."

Did I cross the line? The shadow that passed his face suggested that I might have. He set the mug down and sat, leaning his elbows on the table.

"Okay, I will. You tell me about you first. I'm not going to just tell a stranger my stories without knowing even their name." Ah, this boy knows how to put up a fight. Interesting... a hint of a smile tugged at his lips. Probably very proud of himself for that remark.

"I'm Chevyn. 19. Student at the King's College. This is the first time I've ever shared this table with anyone. Be honoured, Tattoo Boy. And you are?"

"Calum... we're the same age, cool. I work in Gibson's Guitars, you know that shop down the road with the red lace trimmings and the guitars in the window? Yeah. You can't miss it, it's literally like if rock music and Satan had a baby."

I snorted. Maybe his new nickname could be Cynical Calum. I was getting more and more intrigued with every word he said. "That's funny. How many tattoos do you have, Calum?"

"Ten," he swallowed. I could tell he wasn't very ready to share his stories with someone he just met five minutes ago, and I kind of felt like an asshole for pushing him. What a rare occasion. I didn't even know I had a conscience. I guess you do learn something new about yourself every day. Maybe even two things- who knew a stranger's company wasn't that bad, after all?

As soon as I opened my mouth, intending to tell him that it was okay if he didn't want to, he spoke up.

"They're all dates. Dates that... are important to me, or dates that changed me. Things that I want to remember, even things that I don't." Calum looked down at his mug, his dark brown eyes becoming darker, clouded by the mysteries of his past. A dead weight tugged at my heart. He looked so sad...

He reached for his cup and took a sip, wincing at the bitterness (it was black coffee, no wonder) and set it back down. Meeting my gaze, he took a deep breath.