Cigarettes and Coffee

Cigarettes and Coffee


         Everyday I sit down to talk to her. Everyday it’s the same. I bring the cigarettes, she brings the coffee. It has been like this since I met her, not 6 months ago.

         We met here, at the park. It was this exact same spot that I’m sitting at now, under this huge willow by the water. I’m actually waiting for her now. She should be here soon.

         I remember that day I met her because I was crying. I was crying so hard I couldn’t breathe. I never cry and I never cry in public, so I went to sit here, where I am now. I sat in the shade so no one would see me, hidden away underneath the foliage of the tree.

         I remember the feel of the wood under my hands as I held the edge of the seat. The wood was old and flaking. I remember the pants I was wearing that day. They were my black pair, the ones with the tattered ends and cigarette burn on the thigh.

         She came up behind me, crunching through the dead leaves. I knew she was there and she knew that I was aware of her. All I could do was tuck my legs up underneath my chin and let my tears fall sideways down my face. She sat down next to me.

         I didn’t look at her for the longest time. I watched the ducks in the reeds and let my tears soak into my knees and trickle into my ear.

         After a time I stopped crying. My lashes were soaked and I felt like a complete idiot. Yet she was still there. I turned my head to face her and instantly I felt my cheeks start to burn.

         She was beautiful. I had never seen a girl that was more stunning than her. I couldn’t believe I had sat there and cried in front of her for the better part of an hour. I remember feeling like such a fool.

         She was quietly sitting back in the seat while watching me and swinging her boot slightly. I remember loving her boots. She had a simple black hoodie that was unzipped and hanging off her slightly. Underneath she wore a canary yellow t-shirt with ‘Brownie’ printed across the chest. She also had a white singlet on over the top of that. I thought she looked magical.

         She had on black pants and worn red docs on her feet. Her bag rested at her feet. I remember the rainbow badge that was connected to the strap.

         But what got me the most about her, were her eyes. Her eyes were a brilliant blue underneath a mess of black hair. Sunglasses held her fringe at bay while the rest was taken up in two messy pig tails.

         I honestly felt like I could crawl into myself then.

         Instead of talking to me and asking if I was alright she moved closer to me. I felt her thigh against mine and all I could do was look at her eyebrows. I couldn’t bring myself to look her in the eyes.

         She then reached up and smoothed back my hair from my face. She trailed a finger over my cheek and down to my jaw. My skin rippled at the touch. I couldn’t help but look at her then.
         She smiled at me and I felt myself blush all over again.
#

         The cigarettes I bring are always the same. Winfield Gold, tobacco, unopened. I have filters and two packets of papers each.

         I once bought a tobacco pouch to carry the cigarettes in. She told me not to ever bring it again, that she likes the way the packet looks on the grass between us. I’ve always thought she liked the barrier it creates. Neither of us has ever moved around it, we have always sat face-to-face. I’ve never sat beside her, apart from the day we first met.

         She always brings the same coffee, a cappuccino for me and a latte for her. She also brings two sugars and a spoon for my coffee, nothing for hers. She likes hers just plain. The coffees are always in the same plain white styrofoam cup, big but not too much. I have never found out where she gets the coffee from. It tastes wonderful. I should ask her where she gets our coffee.

         I know everything there is to know about her. Where she was born, how many brothers and sisters she has. She told me about her first kiss and her last relationship. She talks endlessly. I listen to the rise and fall of her voice. Often I don’t watch her but lie on my back listening to the soft tones as she talks to me. She has a unique voice, low but feminine.

         She was born overseas, in France to be specific. Her mother was a street artist and her father a male prostitute.

         Apparently he only ever had male customers, he liked it that way. He said it was easy; that the men came to his street, fucked him against the wall and left him again. The female customers always became attached to him, males were easy.

         She told me everything he told her about his time on the Paris streets. About how the older, rich men that wanted him to suck them off and the younger more pretty men that wanted to dominate him and fuck him up the ass. He said that he liked those customers better, that they never went near his face.

         He made a good living apparently. Didn’t spend his money and didn’t have a drug habit. She seems almost proud. I think she just likes having a different father from everyone else. She said she would take me to see him one day.

         Her mother used to paint along the canals. Underneath the massive trees and near the gate portals. Her paintings were of the beautiful women there. Big, small, black and white. She loved them all.

         She would often pay the women to pose naked underneath the trees. She said that her mother had a favourite. One that did it freely for her, one that posed out of the love she had for her mother.

         Her name is Carolyn. She loved her mother, she said. She would sit for her for hours. The sun would go from one side of the river to the other and her mother would sit and sketch for hours. Carolyn never tired of it. Apparently she loved to watch her mothers arm move across her sketch book. Apparently she would always try to catch her mother’s eye.

         She said they were lovers for a time. Before she was born. She has a picture of Carolyn in her journal that she carries around with her. She said once that she wished Carolyn was with her mother now. She used to make her so happy.

#

         I hear the distant ring of her bag as she approaches.

         I sometimes bring her small gifts that I find while roaming the streets. Once it was smoothed glass from the beach, another time a small blue egg.

         I remember the day I found the little blue egg. It was so small and so smooth. It rolled gently around my palm. I tried to find the nest but I couldn’t see it. I spent the better part of an afternoon up a tree with the leaves softly scratching my face. The smells at the top of a tree are so potent. I thought I could smell the sea from there. I gave her the egg the next day.


         The ringing steadily comes closer. I don’t look up in anticipation of her arrival. I wait for her to come closer to see her smile at me.

         The ringing from her bag are the small bells I once found in a small Indian shop. She loves them. It makes me smile inside to know that she wears them.

         I remember running my fingers over all the little baubles in the store. The colours of everything there were so vivid, I wanted to bring her something back to show her the delights I had found. Necklaces, beads, ornamental buddhas, elephants, monkeys, cats and beetles were scattered everywhere. I wanted to try and show her the magic I had found in that small shop down the alleyway.

         The incense that was burning in the store penetrated my clothing. I imagined a small trail of colour and smell drifting behind me as I walked. She actually smelt me that day. She came so close to me, I felt her hair slide over my shoulder.

#

         She is coming closer and the ringing is becoming louder. I should finish this soon and put my journal away. Before I close the cover I watch the shadows move across my page and over the small sketches of plants and abstract drawings of circles and curves.

         I like this time I have here, nearly everyday is the same. We both like it I think. We both still come here in the mornings, just before the people crowd the streets. Sometimes it’s for an hour, often it’s for more. We sit, smoke and drink our coffee and talk.

#

         I watch her feet as they come to rest right in front of me. I look up at her and she smiles.

‘Hello.’
‘Good morning.’

         She leans down and gives me the coffee. The heat permeates from the cup warming my hand. I notice that she let her fingers stay on mine for a time. My eyes crease behind my sunglasses.

         She swings her bag off and dumps it to the ground. I hand her the coffee back and straighten up off the grass.

‘I saw a red balloon in a tree this morning.’

         I smile at her and open my bag. I take the cigarettes out and start rolling one for her.

‘Did you take a picture?’
‘Yes. Want to see?’
‘Definitely.’

         She then does something I was not expecting. She sits down next to me, right next to me. I look at her in surprise. I can feel the heat from her thigh and the smell of her hair. All she does is open my coffee and put my sugars in.