Nearing 2am now and she walks alone, a small figure in an old, shabby coat far too large, young but youthless face tucked away in her collar against the fierce and frigid winter air. But the bitter wind is a ruthless enemy and as he forces his way through her frayed jeans, she slows to a stop and jabs her hand into her pocket, searching. 1
And there, amidst old photos, valueless recyclables, and a day's worth of worthless begging, her near-frozen fingers close around an empty pack of Camel Lights, save a single cigarette. 2
"Allow me to put you out of your miserable solitude," she mutters bitterly, placing it between her cracked lips.3
She smokes away wearily, letting the poison work its slow magic on her surrendered lungs, and as she does so, her eyes fall on the store across the street, bright, warm and welcoming, a tiny coffeeshop, just calling our her name. 4
A coffee might be nice, she thinks with a weak smile, letting her feet in their tattered sneakers carry her across. As she nears the aromatic shop, something vaguely forms inside her. 5
She never drank coffee as a child, so it was the smell that fondly resurrected itself in her memories. The smell of her mother's coffee in the morning at a time when teddy bears could talk and fairy tales were, quite simply, mere history. An innocent time and a happy time too, a time before her lost virginity, before her so-called father decided he didn't give a damn if she was his eight-year-old daughter; sex was sex in his drug-induced mind. 6
Her mother gave up coffee and turned to other things, beverages that left her raving at night, with hangovers in the morning and a putrid stench in the motherly kisses she so rarely distibuted. 7
The fond smell of pure, untainted happiness, and it had left their lives.8
She lets out a little sigh as she walks past the bright, inviting door, trying to control jealousy at the sight of young couples, hopeful seniors and aspiriing, soon-to-be-famous writers, all sipping away at steaming hot cups of whatever. 9
She walks alone, a small figure in a coat too large, and finally settles down on the pavement behind a dumpster in her alley of a bedroom.10
'Coffee is for lovers and other people that enjoy life that much, enough to rather be awake at 2am.'11
And with that final thought, she slowly drifts away into a world of nightmares and bitter truths only a homeless person could ever know. 12
Author notes
Finally. I haven't written in forever. I was taken by a case of SWB (severe writers block), but I'm finally better and here we are.
What did you think? Please comment!
Comments
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Pretty good for a long suffering SWB patient, LOL, no seriously, It is really good! I enjoyed this piece quite much. Keep up the good work.
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This is pretty good I'm happy to say. There are a couple of typos here and there, and some small punctuation problems in my opinion, but this is quite good. Good job! - oce
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There is a great deal of sensitivity shown here. You nicely avoided writing about what you don't know and haven't experienced by focusing on the coffee and its relationship with her joy. You deftly avoided exsposing your lack of experience with disfunctional parents by not doing more than a passing remark in their direction. Your word choices in the descriptive area are deft, done with nice economy and move the story forward with a nice dynamism. Good Job over all. Do me a favor will you and read allpoetry.com/Story/1507004.
Love, Tom B.
Your title is very dry and wry. -
Wonderful... I really like your style of writing. I enjoyed this story thoroughly! Well Done. I am enchanted! I will definitely be reading more of your work!
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