The Paper Wings

Discomfort Food

“What can I getchya, sweetheart?”   The barista leaned forward over the black marble counter, grinning up at the costumer towering before her.  His dark clothes were battered, and his presence grim and negligent as he lurked there, rapping his nails on the countertop. The barista tilted her head just so, rhinestone sparkling in her right nostril.  

“Hhmm. . .Tall espresso?  No, grande, please.”  

“Late night, huh? Hold on one sec!”  She bounced off into the kitchen, catching a quick glance at him over her shoulder.  He was of a grave, elegantly angular countenance, his shoulders broad and solid, yet his frame slender.  Dark, shaggy hair swept across his eyes and he held himself with a negligent slouch.  

He called out his thanks after her, before glancing around cautious.  Hopefully he would be in and out before the shop was packed.  But the only customers at this early hour were himself and a trio of bleary eyed college students.  Though the windows were all swathed in gaudy-colored scarves and bead-curtains, through the glass door he could see the grey streets of Surgiorum crowded with people and imperious, towering buildings.  Aircrafts’ propellers and engines seemed to shake the very air as they dove onto the landing buttresses that jutted out from rooftops and upper stories.  People popped out of their helicopters and nanojets and through portholes at dizzying speed, ladies rushed down the streets laden with shopping bags, and the urchins and beggars had already started up their doleful trudge through the city.  It seemed their were more of them than last time.  It was no surprise considering how much money Surgiorum City had just poured into its grandious trading companies and inventions.  And over it all was the insationable squall of seagulls. 

It was disgusting.  Completely and altogether insalubrious. 

And what next?  The tanks? The bombs?  The factories?  But this was only the musings of a staunch pessimist. The present period prided itself so for being more enlightened, more prudent than those before them.  How resilient they were for rising from the smithereens of a beaten, weary land now called Hässlich.   And they may as well use the little good the previous Empire had left behind to their advantage.  How could it possibly be enough just to be grateful for survival?

Right?

The barista announced that a grande espresso was ready.  The coffee was snatched from her hand with a stony thanks.  

Reader, you are probably wonder what kind of writer begins her story by telling you about sullen miscreants and their beverages.  And Reader, you will probably be even less interested in the the rest of his week, which included drinking himself senseless, spending the next day sulking and nursing his hangover, unable to recall why there was a red mark on his face in the shape of a woman’s hand, then awakening this morning fully clothed in the same tattered garb he’d worn every day.  Indeed, this was a sorry way to be recalled to life.  This was hardly worth his grande escape from prison. He was after all,  none other than the convict Varian Pavlovich Telle, a genius with nothing to boast, and a hero so completely fallen from grace, one wonders why he even goes about the botheration of today.  

And today all started with his ordering coffee.  Because he  absolutely hates coffee.   And what could be worse than a large quantity very bitter espresso undiluted by cream or sugar? Usually, people drown their sorrows in comfort foods like chocolate and ramen noodles.  

But not Mr.Varian Telle.  He was special. 

Because once you’ve slurped down the last of the ramen noodles, it only takes a few moments to feel glummer than ever.  For now there is the added woe of having finished off all the noodles, and a grocery budget which can afford no more.