Java House

An old, Victorian style home from the early 1900s, Java House emits a chic comfort, eclectic pairings of scratched mahogany chairs with framed photos of various scenes in France- an old metallic bike leaning against a cast iron fence, a black and white shot of slanted buildings, the arch of their windows winking along the narrow alley. Hung on the North side of the shop, a ornately framed blackboard boasts the various coffee drinks offered, each written in bright colors and a bold, all caps lettering. She walks up to the counter and says she wants something blended with coffee. The barista smiles and begins to mix something behind the counter, pouring coffee and caramel into a glass pitcher and stirring with a thick metal spoon. In a few moments she slides a frothy beverage across the counter and as their eyes meet, she winks.

“For the caramel lover in you.” She is like a prophet, hitting Josie’s weak spot with uncanny precision. Josie takes the drink in her hands and lifts the straw to her mouth. The blend of coffee and caramel slides down her throat, easily moving into her stomach and bloodstream. She returns the wink. “You got it right, my friend. This is delicious.”

She hands the girl a five dollar bill and says to keep the change, then walks to her hidden spot where she can observe the customers without them making a scene to examine her. A man walks in a few minutes later, as she is setting up her laptop. He marches in with an air of conviction, as if he has places to go and this is stop one on the tour.

“So you’re the new guy,” he states to the boy behind the register.

The boy’s face shades pink and stumbles upon his answer. “Yes.”

“When did you start?” He inquires, and there is a friendliness in his voice that was not there when he first breezed through the door.

“Last week.”

“Last week, huh? Well then, let’s get you some practice on that espresso machine!” he launches into his order and the boy buzzes around, pulling shots and flavor syrups. Josie watches the scene with an insightful eye when she notices another man has snuck in and is surveying the coffee house. He is pretty, with smooth brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail. Angular jaw with the start of the day’s stubble, skin browned with an affair with summer’s sun. White sunglasses crown his head, which sparkles in the morning light through the front door. He gets in line and patiently waits to order.

When the old man is done, he compliments the boy on his work.”Very good, son. Very good. We’ll see what else you can do next week,” and he breezes down the stairs as loftily as he climbed up them.

Josie pulls her eyes away from the front of the room and settles herself further into a mocha colored cushion. A potted plant on the windowsill catches shadows from tree branches stretching across the pane on the other side. She glances into the narrow driveway past the clear crinkled curtains hanging open on a black iron pole. The building next door is an antique furniture store, housing white paint chipped dressers and jangly crystal and gold chandeliers. She can see the shoppers move about the aisles, trailing their fingers along the stained vases set on top of wood burned tables. I should go over and see if there’s a dresser for my bedroom, she muses, but knows she won’t take the plunge today.

Instead, she opens the wrapping of the chocolate chip bread bought with the blended caramel drink and breaks a piece off the corner. The taste of chocolate soaks into the bread, rushing together against her tongue. The computer still whispers for her attention, so she takes one more look around the room.

She sees the face of the beautiful stranger in the reflection off the mirror lined on the counter. He is reading, some memoir of an Austrian diplomat whose name she couldn’t catch, the text small and backwards through the glass.

“Get to work, Jos,” she reprimands herself. But the speakers are spilling out some trumpet number, and while she appreciated a good brass solo every now and then, the music would be of no help when coaxing words onto her manuscript.

Scrolling through her list of artists, many catch her eye, but one catches her ear for this moment. Gregory Alan Isakov. Yes—he’s perfect right now, for the corner French table hidden in the back of the shop, where light spills in on the right side of her body through the life size windows surrounded by old, worn wood frames.

She tells her computer to make a playlist off of “Light Year” and opened up a new document, fresh white page blinking at her with expectancy. Her mind is full of fantasy, of dreams and hopes and ideas the world must understand. But where to begin? What opening mark will enchant the reader and open their mind to all they’ve been too afraid to understand?

Her hands hover over the keyboard. Then, as if taking on a life of their own, the fingers reach down and gently touch each key, slowly, gently at first, testing out their weight, then gathering speed as the words tumble from her mind to her mouth on paper.

Night and day. There is a deepening between the parallel worlds that pulls us to the retracting and replenishing light pieced delicately in the swaying sky…