Coffee and a Stranger

He was short and broad-shouldered, all muscle and sinew, with dark, course stubble and a wide face that might have been handsome if not for the perpetual scowl and the way his jaw clenched; as though a growl would rumble up from his chest like some feral animal. His hair was untamed and as dark as the stubble upon his cheeks, large hands thick but surprisingly lithe as he flipped the thin pages of a book and drank coffee without needing to look where he reached. Sitting there in the small cafè with a wide perimeter of patronless tables surrounding him in an otherwise busy establishment, he appeared surprisingly oblivious to the fact that the other customers would halt abruptly and veer away to another corner; or perhaps it was simply that he did not care.

The look in his eyes convinced her of the latter.

He sat at the table day after day, drinking coffee and reading a book from exactly nine to ten in the morning, before he would rise just at the chime of the city clocktower and leave with only his empty mug and the bill as a reminder: five dollars for a two-dollar coffee. One of the reasons that she had noticed was because she was always the waitress that collected the remnants.

There was something primal in him, she mused. Something told her he was always aware of his surroundings: the way he shifted subtly in his chair so as not to trip her when she passed with a tray, or how his lips pulled ever so subtly at the edges when a wayward child passed by. His body spoke of power, his demeanor of sandpaper on steel, but there was a grace there; a knowing. On a few occassions, he had caught her staring at him, meeting her startled gaze unwaveringly with his own; she could not hold those eyes for long.

There was depth there, wisdom, but it was the kind that you could not touch; so thick it would pull you in if you dared venture forward. Those eyes would swallow her if she let them.

Sometimes she wanted to be swallowed.

Today was one of those days as something bold and poetically suicidal bubbled up in her chest. Before she realized what she was doing, she was standing beside his table, staring down at that dark shock of hair. When he looked up at her, her breath caught.

“Need something, Darlin’?”

“I… I just wanted to ask if there was anything else you might like today.” It was a simple, innocent question, but she felt her body tremble. His eyes glinted at the same time one side of his mouth quirked up into an unexpected gesture. She forced herself to go on; it was two ’til ten. “We have pie: fresh, just out of the oven. Best pie you’ll ever eat.”

“Is that so?” he asked in an inquisitive drawl. She had to shove down the urge to run, hands tightening in the folds of her apron; she knew he noticed, even though his eyes never left her face. On the table, his book had been quietly discarded beside the empty mug.

“Yes sir, it is. And, if you’d like, I could refill your coffee as well. No charge for refills.”

Her body shook with the tremors that ran through it, but her voice held strong and clear as she forced herself to keep eye contact with the dark man. It was not that he in anyway acted intimidating, never a threat from his mouth, but something in him resonated with an aura of danger as she stood beside him; it scared and excited her all at once, curiosity and alarm causing her blood to heat in her veins. He must have noticed, but his features betrayed nothing but attentiveness as she spoke.

He seemed to consider the offer, looking away only to examine the items before him before a hand rose to brush his knuckles against the stubble of his cheek in a thoughtful gesture. Outside, the clock chimed ten. She waited for him to rise and walk out with his book in hand.

“Pie sounds pretty good today. That refill, too.” She blinked in surprise at the answer, his words taking a moment to register in her mind. Slowly, she felt a smile light her face.

“Coming right up.”

The last chime of the hour hummed through the air.

~ by eeratka on November 9, 2007.