Wednesday, January 30, 2008

hey, look out into left field

I'm so done being heartsick.
Here's the first page of the story that precipitated the week-long hiatus.
Enjoy :)

Lucy stirred her now-cold coffee. The heavily beating rain muffled the sounds of the lunch rush. She was the last of the breakfast crowd, her plates whisked away efficiently hours ago, her cup filled for the fourth time. She felt like a fool. The woman who had filled her cup had even looked at her with pity. This was the last time she would sit on this stool, she vowed, the absolute last time. Staring out at the sidewalk, watching people rush hither and yon, she knew she was being ridiculous. There were just so many more important things to be done than to keep vigil on three metres of crowded pavement. She wanted to be in the crowd, not an observer to them. Swigging the bitter dregs in her cup, she pushed off the stool and strode purposefully out door. Heedless of the rain pounding on her – streaming down her neck under her long black leather – she turned the corner and disappeared down the subway tunnel.

***

Precisely 17 days earlier, Lucy had been sitting in Flo’s Fifities CafĂ© enjoying the largest, strongest cup of coffee she had had in a long time. It was perfect: burnt and bitter from being in the percolator too long. Her waitress, whose nametag announced her as “Karen”, had offered to make a fresh pot, but Lucy had insisted that she get what’s left and made a big show of enjoying it. Karen seemed to appreciate the gesture: Lucy was nothing if she wasn’t charming. In the city for less than 24 hours and she already thought she would have to stop by more often. It was still early downtown; her stool facing the window allowed her to watch the streets fill in fast with briefcases and blackberries, double-breasted suits and trench coats. Spring was arriving, and the confusion could be found in the varying degrees of warmth with which these denizens dressed. Flo’s did steady business from 6am onward – but at 8:30, the lineup for a coffee-to-go was almost out the door. She couldn’t blame them: the coffee here was better than any triple grande, half soy, half breve, 1 pump cinnamon dulce latte offered elsewhere. She had tried them all – but this was almost as good as Bogota or Marakesh. Having absolutely nowhere to be at 9am afforded her the luxury of indulging in her favourite past-time: people-watching. Most people viewed people-watching as a hobby; Lucy, however, attacked the task with intent and fervour.

People fascinated her, always had. She remembered (ages ago when she still felt young) spying on a couple while they went about their garden. Their intimate touches, easy conversation, exchanged smiles – how the young Lucy had longed to have that same camaraderie with someone. For the first time, she had felt jealous and cheated. When Izzy and Ish teased her later, she had lashed back at them in way that one could only regret. Not that she would change anything – not that she had been wrong – just that she should have chosen her words more carefully. Asking why wasn’t always going to give you the answers you wanted.

These coffee-to-go people were boring – there was a sense of sameness to them. Same gadgets, same black pumps, same pinstripe, same knots in same ties. Dull. She had just resolved to find more varying pursuits when something flashed in the corner of her eye. Ice blond hair – so light it appeared almost blue in the still-weak sunshine. Broad shoulders on top of a tall frame. Long strides. And then, just like that, gone. But not before a distinct frisson of static familiarly jolted up her spine. Almost upending her cup, she rushed out and around the corner, but there was no sign of him. Frustration and relief collided violently. Too long. Mikhail.

***

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