The past

 

   I started my day at the coffee shop as I had every morning. A beautiful dark-haired woman with a big bust began to become friendly with me on her off days, the days she did not have one of her secret appointments while her husband was out of town. She wore beautiful clothing that hugged her figure, she was wrapped in marble crystals, and she always had a look of anger that stained her face. My first impression was rudeness, I watched her when she was busy with her dirty secrets. However, as time went on, I began to realize that look on her face was the way my heart felt, she just simply did not have the care to bottle her feelings. 

    She would speak of doing practices to feel entirely numb and emotions did not run through her veins, straight through her soul, like they did me. We spoke a few times out of the week. Now that we have had time underneath of our belt, I didn't see the anger, I saw her pain, I saw her life as my own in relatable ways and I could not allow myself to see or feel fear, I saw hurt.

     She was a decent person without the paths to send her right, like my own story.  She was clouded by the darkness around her. She was blind to the road that was always hers, anger consumes her, sadly it has become a part of her. Likewise, sadness has created a home into me. She is the other half of what I should be and a reminder to myself, this is what I could become. 

She speaks of riddles and books of spells; she promises me she can find love and my family that I was meant to have. Her broken hands shakes as she spoke to me and really worked to enforce that she was called upon me to help, she spoke of signs and signals and how they always point straight towards me. She told me that she dreams of me often. Her hands folded onto her bag, where she keeps her treasures, I was confused by what she meant of all this, I was intrigued and scared.

     It sounded so good, and I am filled with questions, I want to ask if she could tell me who to walk towards. Can she tell me a name, give me a face? I politely decline her services, but I spend my nights in the puddle pondering the what ifs. Could she really help me find love? Bring me sight to a family? 

Several nights have passed, I had decided I am very curious, although whenever I reach the coffee shop in the mornings, I do not see her long face. I try to pep my step to arrive an hour early, I move my schedule around to stay an hour late, I walk past the shop on my way home, but she is not here. I missed my chance. I have completely given up.

        Days later, I walked straight to the coffee bar, I shuffled my belongings and pulled off my scarf. Joe the coffee maker has come to know me by the face, as he hands me this brown wooden torn shredded notebook that is written with unfinished sentences, locked with spirals of growing trees, and small closed eyeballs.

"That belongs to your friend." He spoke to me with a gruff voice when he slid it down the counter. 

The pulse beats inside of my ears and flushed my cheeks. I skim the room and stuff my stolen secret into my bag. I do not order coffee this morning, I do not stop for a friendly hello. Instead, I stand to my feet with a hurry while I choke myself with my scarf, I leave a tip on the counter for his troubles. 

I bolt for the door, but I no longer hear the annoying bell ringing. Little did I know, this would be the last time I would stand in the present time, or that I would physically hear, little did I know that when I opened the coffee shop dinging door, that my life had already transitioned and flipped. 

I raced to my room and the last thing that I remember, the only thing that will come to mind:

I fell asleep.

 

 

-Micah Vincent