Coffee at 5 AM √

Chapter 10 ∞ Connor: Chances

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The boy grunted in irritation as yet another person bumped into his shoulder without apologizing. His mother looked at him sympathetically, knowing that he hated being here.

We ride the escalator up to the second floor where there are even more women's clothes. My mom is already carrying three bags and I'm guessing there'll be at least three more in her hand, or mine, by the end of the day, considering she uses me as her personal coat hanger sometimes. We're in San Francisco over the weekend, my mom and I. It only takes fifty minutes to get here from The Bay, but my mother insisted we needed a relaxing weekend away from home together. She said she misses spending time with me, and since Ella told me she couldn't hang out this weekend I agreed.

We walk into a store I don't recognize, and my mother sighs. She turns around and gives me an exhausted smile. "You know that feeling when you really want to shop because you want and need new clothes, but you're tired and annoyed by all the people around you?"

"Sounds like something I would say. Am I rubbing off on you mom?" I snicker.

She shoves my shoulder jokingly. "Hey, kid, I'm the parent, remember?" she laughs. "I feel like I'm boring you. Here, twenty dollars. Now I want you to go buy a lot of cheap things that you like or one expensive one. Don't leave a single cent. Got it?"

I furrow my eyebrows. "Uh, okay, sure."

She stalks off into the store, quickly disappearing behind a clothes rack. I look up at the glass ceiling which is supposed to give the mall a natural light. The sky is grey and cloudy, just the way I like it, not letting that much sunlight in. The marble tiles under my feet shine, still, giving me a peak at my reflection. I don't look tired like I usually do, at least that is not apparent in my reflection. I just look tall, that's it.

I wander around for a bit, wondering what I could possibly want here. I've spent a dollar and fifty on a cappuccino, which was excellent may I add. There isn't really anything I need, but looking around never hurt anyone, cough cough.

My eyes wander to a thrift store, and I practically skip over to the entrance. And there it is, sitting on a table just begging me to buy it. It's almost unreal, the metal buttons a rusty gold, round, black, letters engraved on them. The old wood is a bit uneven and split, telling me that whoever owned this used it quite often and thoroughly, probably when they were feeling emotional.

"How much for the typewriter?" I say, clearing my throat.

The shopkeeper, an old woman, looks up from behind the counter and adjusts her glasses. "How much do you think it's worth?" she is a very elegant woman, her white hair in a high bun, her dress wrinkle free.

"Honestly, I think it's priceless, worth a lot more than money."

She nods once, the hint of a smile on her lips. "Right answer, young man. I would just give it to you, but a lady has to take care of herself. Do you have five dollars?"

"I have eighteen-fifty," picking up the typewriter, I stalk over to the counter and smile a crooked smile.

She waves her arms. "Nonsense! Give me five and give the rest to charity. Homeless cats, preferably."

"I'll give you fifteen, and the kitties three-fifty. Deal?"

"Tsk, tsk, what a stubborn young man you are. Fine, that shall do..."

The typewriter is put into a paper bag and handed to me gently. The old woman sighs and chuckles as I leave the shop. I believe that that woman is my kind of person. She may seem old on the outside, and maybe to people who don't look closely, but to me, she feels so very young. That spark in her eye... she can't be a day over twenty-five, I'm sure of it. The wrinkles on her face don't tell me she's old, they tell me that she's laughed, cried, yelled... lived. Some people are afraid of dying, but I'm not. I'm afraid of being dead before I actually die. When I'm that old I can only hope to be like her, if I'm not I guess I'll be living my worst nightmare.