clutter

stormy

The coffee is bitter and lucid in my mouth, and I make a face as though it can paralyse my taste-buds. Nothing seems right anymore; not the 3am coffee turning cold between my palms, not the storm brewing outside and definitely not the old woman behind the counter who keeps giving me the evil eye.

Maybe if she made her coffee better...I think with displeasure.

I look outside. The rain pounds against every surface like a steady drum and the glass shudders against the frame. The sky is lit with electric fire as sharp rods of white, blue and pink lightning bolts collide with earth in a struggling battle. The earth shakes and the lightning disappears. Somewhere out there a spot is free of lightning for the rest of time.

Because lightning can never strike in the same place twice,I muse.

I push the coffee across the table gently, as not to spill. I pull my poetry book out from my bag and snatch my black ink pen. I write about the lightning in the sky, thrown into a never ending war with the earth. Later in life, I'll turn it into a short story.

Later in life, I'll find someone who actually cares about what day it is.

I write a poem about birthdays and how much they suck. This morning at 7am, I woke up to the smell of waffles and white sauce. I thought for sure it was going to be a great day, but when I got downstairs, there was only enough waffles for my Dad, because he had a big meeting at work today or something. He left without a word and then Mom did dishes. The whole morning was a drag. This afternoon, I got a call from my friends to meet them at our usual spot; Julie's Junkyard, which is just a bunch of thrift stores and antique places near a cool coffee shop, the one I'm in right now. Anyway, so I meet them and they're all casual. We did our usual thing, but nobody said anything about my birthday and nobody seemed to care.

I think about him; my mind taking a trail from my family to my friends and then to him. I haven't seen him since earlier this evening when I told him off; tired and angry and just fed up.

I look out the window.

I write a poem about him and the rain.

I hear a ding above the door and chatter at the front counter. The old woman is pleased with herself now, for reasons I don't know or care about. I hear the sound of more terrible coffee being poured and then footsteps.

"Here." A chocolate danish on a simple plate slides in front of me. "Your favourite. Happy birthday, April."

I look across the booth at him and I'm caught in a snare I can't get out of; stormy grey eyes stare into mine, matching the sky's mood and electricity. His hair is long; past his ears and right up to his jawline. Stubble grows along his jaw. One of his ears are pierced.

"August, wha-?"

"I made a promise," he tells me slowly. He smiles wide. "It's great to see you too, April."

I scowl. "Don't say that." I look away, stare at the stale danish. There's a long pause of silence and then I finally say it, "Everyone forgot my birthday." I look at him. "Even you."

"April, I've had a lot on my mind. Your birthday is important to me and I did remember...I'm just a little late."

"Yeah, three and a half hours late," I say.

"Don't look at me like that." He smiles a little. "I got you something to make it up to you."

"Can I punch you?"

"Uh..." He shrugs. "Maybe later. Right now you have to open this." He lifts a brown paper bag from the space beside him and slides it over to me. "Go on, open it."