The Cafe

What choice did I have? What would you have done? Wrongs must be rectified, that is the only way to true love. You say that I didn’t have to, but…

I watched her enjoy her favorite coffee–a hit of nutmeg, followed by lazy, incessant stirring. I admired her through the window; as I was engaged, the most I could do was peer. My morality would not allow for such behavior. No I didn’t notice my hands shaking, perhaps I need a cigarette. Do you have a light? Thank you.
I passed by that café when I went to work, and always she was sitting there with friends or reading the paper. Pretending that she did not notice me as I went strolling along. I would glance, surreptitiously, towards her, yet not a word passed between us.

Then a tragic but fortuitous event: my engagement disintegrated. It ended quietly, painlessly. No shrieks in the night. So many times I had walked past the café, never once broaching its cavity, but I was a free man, I could what I pleased. The bell chimed welcoming me inside, and she smiled–¬milky white teeth, eyes fiery with delight. She had to have noticed me, wanted me from before. That smile, that flicker of passion, we collided.

I frequented the cafés inner sanctum, no longer a passerby looking in upon my queen. I learned her favorite drink, the car she drove, the friends she kept, the way her laugh lilted in the caffeinated air, the way her voice sweetly rose and fell, branding upon the annals of my mind. On several occasions I followed her to work but never had the nerve to speak. I found out her phone number from the receptionist, and I would call but my voice ran before hello. I still saw her at the café, but we did not speak. Not then.
I
get jittery at the thought of our first few months together. Though you may wonder why I never spoke to her, I am not powerful as you are gentleman. I cannot take a woman upon me with just my burly musk, as I’m sure you can. I am genteel. Thinking of speaking to a woman first causes me great pain; my heart beats a drum that marches my sweat dutifully. I knew she was interested in me. Whenever I looked upon her, she pretended not to have been looking the moment before. Gazing, steadfastly on her paper. I could not work up the courage. Once I had made up my mind that I would speak with her, I was to get up from my corner and walk triumphantly to hers, a knight come to reclaim his lady, but I stayed seated. She left, and so did I. Strangely, she went home instead of to work, an act she had not done before. I thought, this, this is it. I shall speak with her now, I will casually, not forcefully engage her in conversation, but before I had set upon the proper words she vanished into the building. I waited, some hours at least, but she did not come down. I left, vanquished, but determined.

You’re probably wondering about my job. I had quit some time before; my uncle had died and left me a considerable inheritance that allowed me to focus my attentions on my passions. Rarely did my passions go further than my café concubine, but I had wonderful intentions. They would have to wait until I had her within my grasp before embarking on my adventures. They could only be attained with her aid, and love. So I waited. I paused my life for her.

One morning, I sat sipping my coffee, eyeing her, as I was want to do, she came striding up to my table. Her voice quivered as she asked me if I had followed her home the other night. I could not speak, so she forcefully asked me again. I had to respond; I could not keep her waiting. I lied. I said no. She said I looked familiar. I said I frequented this place often. She said she was sorry to bother me, in her self-deprecating way. She was much to hard on herself, I could see that, and I knew that if she would only let me I could fix it. I could make her whole, but she walked away her buttocks tightening and releasing, a special morse code I knew was just for me. She knew it had been me that followed her home, she wanted me, but this was no dingy bar, she could not force herself upon me. This was daylight, and in the day the man must take his prey, even if the prey is willing to be sacrificed. She wanted me to follow her home, and this was her sign.

She left the café, but I did not follow her yet. I went back to my apartment, and washed myself. I cologned, shaved, combed, and dressed. I arrived out on the street fresh, and prepared for my beastly labors. Carnal pleasures should always be derived when the man is fresh, a ripened apple, picked and bitten for its sweet juices.
Look at me I’m shaking. I’m sorry; I did not know then how stupid I had been. How was I to know that my beautiful angel was lying? Luring me in to destroy me, how could I have known how much I had wasted? Only retrospect allows for this kind of questioning, for in the midst of my reckoning I did not see her folly. I did not know my Desdemona.

I bounded up the stairs to her apartment, and broke down the door, a hungry lion seeking his lioness. I knew she would want me manly, self-assured of my own prowess, so that she could rest easy in the hands of civil tyrant. I strutted into her room, expecting her delicacies bare upon her virginal bed. A boy was violating her. I was hurt. Anger welled inside me, a furnace fueled by her moans of deceit. I pounced upon them, a lion retrieving his pride. He fought but could not break my grip. His life turned idly towards death. She had run to the phone, but I caught her, and carried her to the bed. Tears dripped on her face, as I beat my fists into her delicate body. Piously, I slid my hands around her neck.

Have you ever held your beloved’s neck in your hands? Have you ever squeezed the life out of her, watching, as she turned from her rosy pink to a tepid blue? Probably not. I squeezed, my tears streaming over her, my kisses, saliva mixing with tears. A fledgling scream died in her throat: the last gasp of life. I held her to me, and stroked her. My beauty. My love. My Desdemona.

This completed our love, a love that had been fostered in those months at the café. It was subtle, but it was rapture. When you have a love that strong you do not allow it to die out on it’s own. Love is an oil fire. It burns until it is smothered. I had to smother our love; I could not allow it any other way. If I was to prove to her that I was worthy of her love, I had to smother it, the way any man would when confronted with such a test. What choice did I have?

- A. W. Fentress