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Babble

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I am sitting quite alone in a coffee shop at the third table to the left. I am positioned as such so that I can see out of the front window, the one with the name River Town written in black curved letters, reversed in my perspective. Snow is falling, though not hard or fast or in any other noteworthy way. The flakes melt instantly upon hitting the ground, vanishing so a thousand others can follow in the same pursuit. I'm drinking a large cup of coffee (Cream, no sugar) with both hands wrapped around the cup firmly and possessively. Steam rises from the cup, fogging my glasses. Above the front door hangs a small bell, attached to a piece of wood that is pushing away from the wall. Ring ring ring. The bell shakes as the door hits it. Small shoes colored a striking blue step across the barrier, one after another, making a staccato note with each dainty fall against the stone flooring. Legs covered in black stockings up to the knee, stopped by the hem of a purple dress covered in drops of melted snow, which is really just rain. And here we are fiercely loving each other.

The lamp is on, due to your insistent, for you hate making love to a stranger. Makes no difference to me; I see your curves as I feel them. You are soft and beautiful and I tell you such, and you smile your smile (slight and subtle, the edges of your lips curling up, a dimple appearing on your cheek, your eyes getting bigger) and tell me thank you and that you like me enough to love me. I laugh and close my eyes. You walk up to the counter and smile (the most beautiful smile I've seen) and order coffee, black and plain and bitter. The worker is wearing an apron that is smudged with stains and the dust of ground-up beans. Her face is tired and her hair is done in a ponytail, mostly hidden by the green cap she has to wear. She asks for a dollar fifty, you give it to her, fishing though a pocket on your dress. Brown hair that curls a thousand times upon itself, reaching down to the middle of your back and weaving in and out of different strands, attracting my eye. The coffee is handed to you in the custom Styrofoam cup specially designed for the café. You turn from the counter and for a moment we see each other. I pull my lips back slightly, an expression of polite recognition, and you your smile again, the only one you have, and begin walking towards the third table to the left, second row. I glance outside. The snow looks almost like rain. We are on a bench in the park and I am feeding you blue cotton candy.

An old woman walks by with a dog that has an outrageous hair cut, the same outrageous hair cut that the woman herself has. We laugh, though not too loudly, and I lick the sticky sugar from the cotton candy off of my fingers and from your lips and tongue and any other part of you. I notice that the clouds above are getting dark. A fan overhead, one of three, is spinning slowly, though it is already cool enough inside the cafe. You have a necklace, a black diamond moth that rests comfortably in the curve of your breast. Stop. In front of me now, I look up into your eyes and you say hi and I say hi back and you ask if you could possibly sit with me and I say sure that's no problem. So you sit. Pulling the (wooden, like the tables) chair back, stepping in front of it, and running your hands down from your thighs to your knees as you sit to keep the dress in proper position. I stare in appreciation as you casually touch yourself. You are facing away from the window and the snow. You are facing only me. You are crying, head on my lap.

We are sitting alone on the floor, my legs crossed, the television tuned into static. In between sobs you sputter, saliva dripping onto my pants in an unseductive yet somehow cute way and you tell me that you are so sorry. Over and over. I ask if you know about static, about how we aren't watching nothing but are watching everything; that the universe is being broadcast in static and that each little fuzz comes from worlds away and tells of entire lives in every language ever uttered and then some. It is beautiful, I say, like you, which admittedly is a bit cliché yet still true. More tears. More sobbing. More drool on my pants. You shake your head from side to side a bit, and I sip my coffee while watching you do so. The weak snow outside and the window between frames your body and face in white and grey purity. You ask me my name and I tell it to you. You repeat it twice to yourself and say that it is a great name before telling me yours. I give back the compliment, sounding like I am being only polite, but secretly repeating it a thousand times over in my head. We begin to talk about the cafe and how we both love it and how we found it and what we do. We talk about our pets, our dreams, our childhoods. Thirty minutes have passed since you sat down across from me. We are shouting at each other, I the louder one, in my kitchen.

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