Coffee, Chairs and Little, Green Butterflies (1/3)
“Andrew?”
The green-eyed barista calls out in anticipation. I hear her, but make no reaction. Pretty eyes scan the empty foyer, coming to rest on the back of my head. She waits an instant before following up.
“Medium black coffee for Andrew?” Her voice is questioning, slightly confused, but not annoyed. I react this time, re-focusing my eyes after their long blurry gaze into space. I could have fallen asleep. She’s calling me…
I wait longer, my hands folded in my lap, seemingly unaware of the girl’s stare. A dull buzz creeps in from somewhere distant, far from this vacant atrium. It tickles my ears. The room I find myself in is garnished by solitary juniper furniture on a brazen, orange floor. The collection consists of small couches, chairs, futons, coffee tables and loveseats (or just seats, really). Each piece possesses its own features, bubbly and imaginative like a bad art school project. The legs of said objects are hidden out of sight underneath the avocado leather, creating a levitating effect. There is nothing else in the room, aside from the tiny nook-turned-cafe. Much too large of a room for the two of us.
I scan the floor now, taking in all the burnt amber carpeting and patches of shadowy, rusty coffee stains. Such a shame to spill one’s “energy juice.” At last I stir. Noiseless and with ease, I stand and meander my way towards the corner. Each step is silent, yet feels hollow, as if hinting at a hidden room below. Perhaps a room of brilliant navy or deep maroon. Could there be grand, royal magenta on the walls, far surpassing the “beauty” of the eggshell walls here? Maybe there is dandelion yellow, rose red, or brown like the bark of an ancient oak. Or more black. Probably more black abyss.
I have arrived. What do you want?
Shamrock eyes gaze up at me. I love those emerald eyes. They always give me butterflies, but only green ones. Yes, tiny, green butterflies.
“Andrew, right?” The pupils remain fixed on mine. I love this part. I say nothing, keeping still, tranquil. I do not smile, but am not upset. “Are you… sure you don’t want sugar or…” She gives up. We exchange the cup, fingers brushing each other in the process. The butterflies are happy to flutter mindlessly in my abdomen, forcing a breath from my lungs. I like to think there are moments where the clocks stop, just like in the movies. The buzzing quiets. All feeling in my body lifts from me. I can’t feel the dull, apricot carpet under my shoes. Then it is gone. Now I am holding a cup of warm, plain coffee. A girl stares and stares, questions whirring through her head, left, right, up, down. Never through her mouth, though. I can see clearly the moment she realizes the room we are in has no doors. Or windows for that matter. After a lifetime, she breaks our connection and her lime eyes dodge and dart around her. Now I smile. She is pretty when she’s nervous. Lightly grabbing her hand, I rebuild the bridge between us; her pupils to mine. I shake my head. After a second she nods, before realizing I have her hand. She lingers, but pulls away soon enough. A draft hits my neck, and the hairs stand in salute. Her cheeks begin to change color. Such a transformation from pale to precious. From a quiet tan to a rosy pink. It lights up the room. Green surrounds me, her eyes feel nearer. The colors blend, twisting and turning, hugging and stretching. It’s impossible to put into words. I feel myself in a whirlwind. My vision is cloudy. All I see is her.
Then it is over.
We are close.
I feel a semblance of someone.
We never touch.
We never speak.
We never will.
I turn around in a moment and swipe my coffee from the counter.
“Why do…” She speaks with faltering tone. I can hardly bear the sound, almost a whisper. “Why do I love you?”
I don’t know.
Upon reaching my seat, I lift the cup towards my lips. To my surprise I hesitate. What? There is no need for that. There is no more here. There never is. I close my eyes and tilt back my head, waiting for the hot sensation of liquid on my tongue. Just as I feel it, I hear a voice sound out once again.
“Your name isn’t Andrew, is it?”
Shock rocks my still frame and my head jolts forward. What did she just say? She’s not supposed to say that. That isn’t part of…
I fling myself around, half of me hanging off the olive futon. My vision begins to darken, blots block my view. I stay conscious long enough to see the girl, my girl, standing upright in the entrance of the cafe.
There is a smile.
A radiant, sunny smile.
A glimpse of heaven, or paradise below.
I cry out, reaching to grab at nothing. My own shrieks sound distorted and strange. Then nothing.
My serene, auburn eyes peel open. I am still. I feel nothing at all. Nothing is new, nothing feels off. My hands are folded in my lap. I hear nothing but the distant hum of some lost hopes and dreams. This room is way too big for just me. I almost smile at the thought.
Finally I hear the voice call out across the vast expanse of furniture. Not louder, not softer; not confident or shy.
“Andrew?” A pause.
“Medium black coffee for Andrew?”