Pebbles: A Collection of Short Stories

What's a Year?

Typically, I love rainy days, the soft patter of rain on the window, the sparkle of the city after the refreshing cleanse. But this day, I was just irritated. Toby had taken the coffee maker when he moved out of our once-shared apartment because our relationship 'just felt too real.' I missed the coffee maker more than him, especially as I tucked into the overcrowded café filled with equally annoyed and damp patrons.

"You can sit." The chair across from me spun out a bit from the shove of his foot as he spoke. His voice was low like the rumble of a motorcycle, irksome in the same fashion. It was a hoarse voice that crashed through my daydream like the growl of an oversized truck overshadowing the song you are trying to hear on the radio.

"I'm fine; thank you." My smile came flat like my tone, hoping to dissuade any further conversation.

"Suit yourself, but I've been here for 15-minutes, and the new barista seems no closer to figuring out his job now than when I sat down." He waved a hand to a particularly disgruntled man hovering by the counter, "that dude got here before me."

I looked down at this rather pushy stranger inspecting him for any hints that he was a nefarious character. He didn't appear to be holding a bloody knife nor have an unseasonably warm ski mask for this early Fall day. He was only armed with a pen that he was wielding against a napkin with uninspired strokes. I glanced up at the floundering barista before I reluctantly plopped down in the chair.

"Impressive." He murmured to himself. He glanced up at me briefly with warm brown eyes that had an infuriating degree of a tease to them.

"What's impressive?" I knew I would regret engaging, but it appeared my coffee would take a while; damn, caffeine addiction.

"Usually, it takes people a solid 3-minutes to determine I'm not a psycho-killer; you made it there in one." One corner of his mouth twitched up into a crooked smile. He was too confident for his average looks; his oval face was framed by a disheveled mop of chocolate brown hair that somehow managed to merge into his unshaven scruff. His eyebrows were entirely too thick, giving him a sleepy look. "For the record, I am only one, not both." His eyes flickered down to his doodle before up to me again. "Not even a fake smile." He assessed.

"Am I supposed to find mental health or murderers funny?" I should have been nicer; he had offered me the last seat in the small café, but friendly was not in my bones.

"Do you credit this sunny disposition to lack of coffee, or are you just really sexually frustrated?" He didn't bother looking up from his doodle this time, as though my answer didn't interest him in the least.

"Let me discuss my sex life with the stranger in a coffee shop. That seems like a solid way to start my day."

"Who better to share sexual frustration? Not like I'm going to judge; I'll probably never see you again." He just volleyed the conversation with his stupid sleepy eyebrows. "Ryan, so we aren't strangers anymore."

"Sarah," I responded with my name out of automatic politeness. Aggravated at my slip, I pushed to regain the conversation. "Shared, so you are sexually frustrated?"

"I'm a man in my mid-twenties; I'm sexually frustrated by definition."

"Charmer like you with no girlfriend; shocking." I should have gotten up, but his lack of attention became a nuisance that I couldn't ignore. It's one thing to be ignored in favor of a phone, I was used to the distraction of a black gadget, but a pen and napkin were just impolite.

"I didn't say I didn't have a girlfriend; I just said I was sexually frustrated."

"You know it's rude to hold a conversation without even bothering to make eye contact." A laugh erupted from his lips, but he met my eyes. "What's so funny?" My tone dripped with annoyance.