Metal scraped stone, sweeping back rays of autumn afternoon. Customers posed on chairs and couches, faces bathed in blue light and restrained emotion. He shuffled forward in the line, squinting at the neon hieroglyphics on the menu board. The young woman in front of him recited her order, and though he recognized the words, they held no meaning. He was about to order his first cup of coffee.
He reached the counter and pocketed the key, fingering the impression on his palm as he asked simply for a medium. He pulled virgin plastic from his back pocket and traded the barista for a steaming ceramic mug. A mug. He had hoped for a paper cup and a final moment alone by the river. He glanced down at the creeping beams of light.
Another patron was deftly juggling condiments on a counter. He followed and observed the well-rehearsed ritual, making mental notes as he passed the hot mug back and forth between his hands. He copied the dance and watched as the liquid swirled from black through shades of brown, finally settling on the familiar beige of his memories.
He surveyed the shop, suddenly intent on finding the ideal seat for starting a new life. Remains of sunlight stroked a table with high-back wooden chairs and in one corner a booth sat empty next to a cluttered bookshelf. A couple tangled on an overstuffed loveseat. He chose an armchair near the fireplace on the shadowy side of the café and set the drink on a table. The key gouged his thigh as he sat down, and he fished it out and dropped it into a coat pocket.
He admitted to himself that there was no such thing as starting over. There was no scratch, no zero. He was starting from thirty. For fourteen months he had ignored the outside world and denied the existence of possibility. He never intended to disconnect so completely, but once he had, he found it easy to withdraw from everything. In the end, the events that led to his seclusion were repeated, forcing him to resurface.
He was starting from thirty and then some. Each fiber held secrets of generations, pleasure and pain. He leaned into the steam and closed his eyes, willing the newness into every cell. He briefly wondered if this breath would become part of another being, if he would ever have that chance again. His hand dipped into his coat pocket, pushing aside the key and carefully removing the small leather notebook. He opened his eyes, trembling as he turned to the page with the frayed ribbon. His left thumb brushed the smeared blue ink of final words, and his right, the stark white of zero.
Some of this sounded/moved like a poem, so I cut it all up into lines and stanzas. Didn’t change a word, but if I had, mighta lost some conjunctions and other such small words appropriate prose language, but less so for poemtry
If unappreciated, holla.
==================================
Metal scraped stone, sweeping
back rays of autumn
afternoon. Customers
posed on chairs and
couches, faces bathed in blue
light and restrained
emotion. He shuffled
forward in the line,
squinting at the neon
hieroglyphics on the menu
board. The young woman
in front of him
recited her order, and
though he recognized the
words, they held
no meaning. He was
about to order his first
cup of coffee.
He reached
the counter and
pocketed the key,
fingering the impression
on his palm as
he asked simply
for a medium. He
pulled virgin plastic
from his back
pocket and traded
the barista for a
steaming ceramic mug.
A mug. He had
hoped for a paper
cup and a final
moment alone
by the river. He glanced
down at the creeping
beams of light.
Another patron
was deftly juggling
condiments on a counter.
He followed
and observed the well-
rehearsed ritual, making
mental notes as he passed
the hot mug back and forth
between his hands. He
copied the dance and
watched
as the liquid
swirled from black
through shades
of brown, finally
settling on
the familiar
beige of his memories.
He surveyed the shop, suddenly
intent on finding the ideal
seat for starting
a new life. Remains of sunlight
stroked a table with high-back
wooden chairs and in
one corner a booth
sat empty next
to a cluttered bookshelf.
A couple tangled on
an overstuffed loveseat. He chose
an armchair near the fireplace
on the shadowy side
of the café and set
the drink on a table. The key
gouged his thigh as he sat
down, and he fished
it out and dropped it
into a coat pocket.
He admitted to himself
that there was
no such thing
as starting over. There was
no scratch, no zero.
He was starting
from thirty. For fourteen
months he had ignored
the outside world
and denied the existence of
possibility. He never intended
to disconnect so completely,
but once he had, he found it
easy to withdraw
from everything. In the end,
the events that led to his
seclusion were repeated,
forcing him to resurface.
He was starting from thirty
and then some. Each fiber
held secrets of generations,
pleasure and pain. He leaned
into the steam and closed
his eyes, willing
the newness into
every cell. He
briefly wondered if
this breath would become
part of another
being, if he
would ever
have that chance
again. His hand
dipped into
his coat
pocket, pushing
aside the key and
carefully removing
the small leather
notebook. He opened
his eyes, trembling
as he turned
to the page
with the frayed
ribbon. His left
thumb brushed
the smeared
blue ink of
final words, and
his right,
the stark
white of zero.
I love that my writing has been handled, touched like this. It makes so much sense to me and makes me happy. Thank you for taking the time!
Jen,
Beautiful writing – and it gave me a moment to pause, to feel, to acknowledge some thoughts and fears in my own head…
Thank you!
Thanks, Heidi. I’m excited about trying something new. I appreciate you taking a time to read!