AMA-Con: The Compilation

Tugging On The Chords Of Time

Written by: maichards 

Prompt: "Stalk someone you really like and eventually you'll get through." 

Prompt by: pattyboy1099

***

RJ huffs and grunts a little too loudly, he secretly wishes the gods and his forefathers were listening. The bags under his eyes are a little heavier than usual, nights of endless stacks of international law and corporate dispute cases etched deeply into each fine line.

Getting a law degree is a feat – an endless swirl of caffeine-driven mornings and afternoons spent mindlessly floating amidst thousands of pages of articles and provisions all cramped into hollow shells of what were once perfectly functional human beings, the effort of wearing crisp and freshly laundered suits along with drones of what appears to be small talk in between classes being their last attempt at living. Evenings are when it gets rough, because in the constant battle between study and slumber only a fool would choose the latter. And after a number of six o'clock jolts from his sister's alarm across the hall and waking up to unused sticky notes and unread piles of Persons cases, RJ knows well enough where he falls.

The sign dangles languidly in front of him, a little lopsided and RJ bites back the nagging urge to stage a break in just to tilt it a tiny bit to the left. The last thing he needs on a lazy Sunday morning is to learn that his favorite café and study place has been closed down for renovation. RJ thinks extra space is completely unnecessary, but perhaps the restrooms could use extra work. One final exasperated sigh slips from his lips, quick and almost unnoticeable, before his engine roars to life again and he drives away. If memory serves him well, there should be a smaller café nearby.

The cobblestones dance idly to the mechanical hum of RJ's car as he takes a right down the first corner.

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The chalkboard easel placed a few steps to the left of the front door boasts of years of battle scars from the scorching heat of May summers and the deafening downpour of November showers altogether, and the promise of the quality-tasting Chocolate Mint Cappuccino complemented with a meticulously-sketched drawing of coffee beans. Arrays of planks cover the outer walls, white-washed and slowly chipping at the ends but RJ strangely appreciates the appeal of contrast. Framed windows are placed equidistant from each other, enough to illuminate the interior to a non-blinding extent. Fairy lights hang limply from above, framing the entrance in faint glimmers of gold against the gentle nine o'clock sunshine. Fastened to the ledge is a metal cube with neon letters at the heart of it. This is when RJ learns that the café is apparently called Time, reasons for which he would probably never understand so he doesn't bother trying to figure it out. The doors are chestnut in shade dressed in faded splatters of white to match the walls. Brass handles meet in the middle, each lined with peach ribbons that appear to be silk the way light pools and slides over the surface. Flowers fill a tray fixed nearly halfway through each door panel, most of which appear to be pastel-colored poppies with a decent number of hyacinths and asters in muted shades of purple splayed over blank spaces. RJ is reminded of dusk out in distant fields where bright reds and oranges from tail lights and road signs are replaced with pink patches bleeding into purple and blue skies. He misses how life was once so easy.

His first step is heavy, laced with hesitation and doubts. One would think the smell of coffee would not vary as much, but from where he stands he smells ambiguity – oddly, the kind that lures him in. RJ is used to the smell of caffeine and fine print, of pen ink on paper topped with hints of mint, of hot tea and wafts of department store perfumes mixed with the misty scent of custom-made air conditioning filter from his usual place. Here he smells nothing but coffee beans foreign to his palate. Perhaps he catches a tang of citrus lingering beneath the musk, though he isn't quite sure.