Along Came a Spider
What would you say if I told you I’d gotten a second chance at life? If skeptical, you’d be right. Because there are no second chances, no re-takes; life isn’t a stage play. In fact, it’s even less real than that. Less tangible. Less predictable. Life is a dream. It melts like snow and rides the currents of time like the rapids of a wild river. And, it offers sweet nectars to those who learn to navigate its twisting course. Me…I had help.
It began…or, rather, ended…on a miserably cold, wet, sleety night in Harvard Square . The cobblestones were slick and shining in the lamplight, the wind harsh and bitter. Turning the collar of my overcoat against the icy shards pelting my cheeks, I took refuge in a small coffee shop called Mocha Memories . Oddly, I couldn’t remember ever having seen it before. No surprise, really, the way small businesses are constantly coming and going in Harvard Square . The University is constantly expanding, swallowing or crushing everything in its path like some ravenous beast in a feeding frenzy.
I sat at a corner table and sighed, rubbing my eyes in weariness. Seeing my lined, gray-haired reflection in the plate glass window, I shook my head and stared into the dull, milky swirl of my coffee. It had been another frustrating week of trying to find the fiery rhetoric to inspire dull-spirited, hedonistic college students and groaning with disgust over my desk, grading term papers that read more like Internet-processed generic pap than anything remotely resembling socio-political commentary. I felt like I’d hit rock bottom. I’d earned tenure only to grind out a generation of simpering conformists and corporate stooges. I saw an impotent old man looking back at me from the mirror and realized I’d bluffed my way past life’s hurdles, only to have it slip by me and leave me at a dead end.
Then, I saw her. Alluring and beautiful as the exotic tropical lands and sun-drenched Caribbean beaches I’d visited in my youth but never found the courage to truly explore. Her raven hair fell in flowing tresses across her soft shoulders as she tossed her head and smiled, her teeth like sparkling pearls. Her dark eyes reminded me of a starry, moonlit night. Her sun-bronzed flesh reminded me of warm, sweet mocha. A form-hugging red dress accentuated every sensuous curve of her lithe, athletic form. I had to struggle to keep my gaze from sliding headfirst into the fathomless ravine of her cleavage, her full bosom fighting to escape the confines of her dress. As she uncrossed her long, shapely brown legs, my heart pounded against my chest, blood surging though my temples.
I thought I was dreaming as she slid off her counter stool and seemed to float to my table. “This seat taken?” she asked, in an accent I couldn’t identify.
Well, I’d never figured heaven as my final destination, so of course I figured her for a pro. But, I decided to milk every moment of it anyway, even though I obviously couldn’t afford her.
“No. Please, be my guest.”
A warmth radiated from her that made me think of summer skies and blue waters. “Mocha,” she said, forming the word slowly, her tongue rolling over her teeth, her full red lips seemingly caressing the word.
“Uh…yes, of course, I’ll order you one. Waitress…”
She laughed. “No, silly; that’s my name. Mocha.”
My face flamed hot as I lowered my eyes. “So sorry. I just assumed…”
“Do you have a name?”
I looked up into her piercing eyes. “Kyle,” I managed to get out.
Her smile sent shivers down my spine. “Well, Kyle…let me buy you one. They serve the best here, you know.”
The flow of conversation after that was as irrelevant as it was unconscious. Like trying to remember lines in a book while dreaming. Thoughts and facts and words melted into the flow of sensual emotions that energized my tired blood. It all
What would you say if I told you I’d gotten a second chance at life? If skeptical, you’d be right. Because there are no second chances, no re-takes; life isn’t a stage play. In fact, it’s even less real than that. Less tangible. Less predictable. Life is a dream. It melts like snow and rides the currents of time like the rapids of a wild river. And, it offers sweet nectars to those who learn to navigate its twisting course. Me…I had help.
It began…or, rather, ended…on a miserably cold, wet, sleety night in Harvard Square . The cobblestones were slick and shining in the lamplight, the wind harsh and bitter. Turning the collar of my overcoat against the icy shards pelting my cheeks, I took refuge in a small coffee shop called Mocha Memories . Oddly, I couldn’t remember ever having seen it before. No surprise, really, the way small businesses are constantly coming and going in Harvard Square . The University is constantly expanding, swallowing or crushing everything in its path like some ravenous beast in a feeding frenzy.
I sat at a corner table and sighed, rubbing my eyes in weariness. Seeing my lined, gray-haired reflection in the plate glass window, I shook my head and stared into the dull, milky swirl of my coffee. It had been another frustrating week of trying to find the fiery rhetoric to inspire dull-spirited, hedonistic college students and groaning with disgust over my desk, grading term papers that read more like Internet-processed generic pap than anything remotely resembling socio-political commentary. I felt like I’d hit rock bottom. I’d earned tenure only to grind out a generation of simpering conformists and corporate stooges. I saw an impotent old man looking back at me from the mirror and realized I’d bluffed my way past life’s hurdles, only to have it slip by me and leave me at a dead end.
Then, I saw her. Alluring and beautiful as the exotic tropical lands and sun-drenched Caribbean beaches I’d visited in my youth but never found the courage to truly explore. Her raven hair fell in flowing tresses across her soft shoulders as she tossed her head and smiled, her teeth like sparkling pearls. Her dark eyes reminded me of a starry, moonlit night. Her sun-bronzed flesh reminded me of warm, sweet mocha. A form-hugging red dress accentuated every sensuous curve of her lithe, athletic form. I had to struggle to keep my gaze from sliding headfirst into the fathomless ravine of her cleavage, her full bosom fighting to escape the confines of her dress. As she uncrossed her long, shapely brown legs, my heart pounded against my chest, blood surging though my temples.
I thought I was dreaming as she slid off her counter stool and seemed to float to my table. “This seat taken?” she asked, in an accent I couldn’t identify.
Well, I’d never figured heaven as my final destination, so of course I figured her for a pro. But, I decided to milk every moment of it anyway, even though I obviously couldn’t afford her.
“No. Please, be my guest.”
A warmth radiated from her that made me think of summer skies and blue waters. “Mocha,” she said, forming the word slowly, her tongue rolling over her teeth, her full red lips seemingly caressing the word.
“Uh…yes, of course, I’ll order you one. Waitress…”
She laughed. “No, silly; that’s my name. Mocha.”
My face flamed hot as I lowered my eyes. “So sorry. I just assumed…”
“Do you have a name?”
I looked up into her piercing eyes. “Kyle,” I managed to get out.
Her smile sent shivers down my spine. “Well, Kyle…let me buy you one. They serve the best here, you know.”
The flow of conversation after that was as irrelevant as it was unconscious. Like trying to remember lines in a book while dreaming. Thoughts and facts and words melted into the flow of sensual emotions that energized my tired blood. It all
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