encircles me. I step up to the counter. A large back-lit menu board is hung against the wall. To my left, there’s a case full of donuts, muffins and cookies behind handprint smudged glass. Allison jumps in, ordering a double-double and an apple fritter as I try to make up my mind. She pays, takes her coffee and soggy looking fritter into her hands and steps to the side.
The counter person shifts and sighs, waiting to take my order. It’s funny, this place with its yellow walls, cracked tiled floor and slightly grimy everything is trying to be a Starbucks but to no avail. They offer fancy drinks, but when I order a Macchiato, like the menu board promises, the know-nothing barista stares at me with confusion. She, black hair pulled up into a net, brown visor and dirty apron, says, “Coffee’s fresh.”
Taking this as a sign, I order a black coffee. I always wondered why people drink coffee, if only to mask the flavor—like Mom does—with sugar and cream.
I toss over a crumpled five dollar bill and accept my change. At least the prices aren’t like the fancy coffee back home.
We sit by the window. My chair is hard, worn wood, and the table’s unlevel, tilting precariously to one side. I have to put my foot on the base just to steady it.
Allison digs into her fritter, and with a mouth full of dough and apple, she says, “I’m so glad you came.”
Looking out the window, I nod. I can’t look at her. Who talks with a mouth full of food? It’s apparent her grocery packing skills aren’t the only things lacking. Then I chastise myself for being such a—nit-picky freak. I thought I was going to work on that too, wasn’t I?
This time she swallows down her food with a swig of coffee before she says, “So, how are you liking it here? I mean it’s no California.”
“It’s quaint.” I take a sip of coffee. Watered down and piss warm. Then it hits me. I don’t think I ever told her where I was from. “How’d you know?” I ask, surprised.
Allison’s head tilts to the side. She waves me off. “A hunch,” she says. “It was either that or Florida.”
I nod. Then I say, “I haven’t had much time to look around, yet,” with a smile, realizing I should try to fit in and not completely alienate myself.
“Oh, well. There’s not really too much to see. I mean, I like it here, but I bet it must seem tiny to you.”
"It's quiet." I take another sip of coffee. My foot begins to fidget. The table begins to vibrate as my impatience gets the better of me. So much for trying to steady the table and make small talk. Suddenly I wish I had said no. I’m not sure if Allison can help me out. Nor do I think I want her to. But that doesn’t stop me from trying. I push my own feelings aside and remember I’m here for Oakley, if nothing else. “So, I was wondering, I just moved into that house, at the top of the hill on Elm—”
She leans forward, and taking a napkin from the dispenser, brushes her fingers with it.
“Do you know anything about it? I mean its history?”
She thinks about this for a minute. “Oh, it’s got history, just not the historical kind.”
My eyebrows furrow. Is there any other kind of history? “What do you mean?”
“Well—” She wraps her hands around the coffee mug and brings it to her lips before setting it back down on the veneered table top. “I’m surprised you don’t know, being its new owner and all.”
“Please, enlighten me,” I say. Quickly I put another smile on my face, trying to be more personable.
The mug of coffee finds its way to her lips again. “It’s quite sad really. Shook the whole town up.” She pauses.
I lean in, folding my arms on the table, silently begging her to spit it out, because my head is coming undone with all sorts of scenarios, all of them involving Oakley. I wonder what he’s doing right now...
“A few years back, maybe four or five, the two brothers who lived there got into a fight or something. I think one of them died. I
The counter person shifts and sighs, waiting to take my order. It’s funny, this place with its yellow walls, cracked tiled floor and slightly grimy everything is trying to be a Starbucks but to no avail. They offer fancy drinks, but when I order a Macchiato, like the menu board promises, the know-nothing barista stares at me with confusion. She, black hair pulled up into a net, brown visor and dirty apron, says, “Coffee’s fresh.”
Taking this as a sign, I order a black coffee. I always wondered why people drink coffee, if only to mask the flavor—like Mom does—with sugar and cream.
I toss over a crumpled five dollar bill and accept my change. At least the prices aren’t like the fancy coffee back home.
We sit by the window. My chair is hard, worn wood, and the table’s unlevel, tilting precariously to one side. I have to put my foot on the base just to steady it.
Allison digs into her fritter, and with a mouth full of dough and apple, she says, “I’m so glad you came.”
Looking out the window, I nod. I can’t look at her. Who talks with a mouth full of food? It’s apparent her grocery packing skills aren’t the only things lacking. Then I chastise myself for being such a—nit-picky freak. I thought I was going to work on that too, wasn’t I?
This time she swallows down her food with a swig of coffee before she says, “So, how are you liking it here? I mean it’s no California.”
“It’s quaint.” I take a sip of coffee. Watered down and piss warm. Then it hits me. I don’t think I ever told her where I was from. “How’d you know?” I ask, surprised.
Allison’s head tilts to the side. She waves me off. “A hunch,” she says. “It was either that or Florida.”
I nod. Then I say, “I haven’t had much time to look around, yet,” with a smile, realizing I should try to fit in and not completely alienate myself.
“Oh, well. There’s not really too much to see. I mean, I like it here, but I bet it must seem tiny to you.”
"It's quiet." I take another sip of coffee. My foot begins to fidget. The table begins to vibrate as my impatience gets the better of me. So much for trying to steady the table and make small talk. Suddenly I wish I had said no. I’m not sure if Allison can help me out. Nor do I think I want her to. But that doesn’t stop me from trying. I push my own feelings aside and remember I’m here for Oakley, if nothing else. “So, I was wondering, I just moved into that house, at the top of the hill on Elm—”
She leans forward, and taking a napkin from the dispenser, brushes her fingers with it.
“Do you know anything about it? I mean its history?”
She thinks about this for a minute. “Oh, it’s got history, just not the historical kind.”
My eyebrows furrow. Is there any other kind of history? “What do you mean?”
“Well—” She wraps her hands around the coffee mug and brings it to her lips before setting it back down on the veneered table top. “I’m surprised you don’t know, being its new owner and all.”
“Please, enlighten me,” I say. Quickly I put another smile on my face, trying to be more personable.
The mug of coffee finds its way to her lips again. “It’s quite sad really. Shook the whole town up.” She pauses.
I lean in, folding my arms on the table, silently begging her to spit it out, because my head is coming undone with all sorts of scenarios, all of them involving Oakley. I wonder what he’s doing right now...
“A few years back, maybe four or five, the two brothers who lived there got into a fight or something. I think one of them died. I
Similar Books
