Coffee and Tea

The Cup o' Joe

The trailer above was created by the inimitable Emmy//Bronzetortuga

"Welcome to the Cup o' Joe, Home of the world's greatest Cup o' Joe. Can I take your order?" I ask the woman and her son standing in front of the cash register. She looks frazzled with bright red fly-aways, a messy ponytail, and the boy is tugging on her white stained shirt. I smile without letting the smile reach my eyes, but it's not like she'd notice. They're never looking at my face or asking me how I am. If they did they'd know, I'm AWFUL but glad someone cared enough to ask. That is if anyone actually asked. Which they don't. Now I'm frowning.

"Sure, umm I'd like a... a... hmm." I roll my eyes, She's a menu reader. The kind that takes forever reading every last word on the carefully printed chalkboard mounted on the wall behind my head. I zone out and miss the order. "Excuse me... are you listening? Did you get that?" I start and come back to reality. Now she's the one rolling her eyes, I grimace and pose my hand over the pad.

"Could you repeat that?" I ask with a shy smile, she grunts and takes her son's hand, in an obvious Auf Weiderson gesture. I give a little wave as she drags the boy back out the door, muttering about the quality of "Cup o' Joe" coffee house. The next person in line steps up, it's a man who drops a 20 dollar bill in the tip jar and gives me a direct order. I give a rare sunny smile to him in gratitude... baristas don't make much, or enough money.

"Thanks for coming!" I add as he walks away. I take care of the rest of the line and empty half of the tip jar into my purse before Joe (ironically enough the manager) closed up shop. On my way out I let my hands trail across the brown bricks, rubbed smooth by the many other hands that passed through this threshold every day... like me.

The walk back to my apartment was always slow and lonely, but this one somehow more so. My apartment was the same one my mum raised me in... I couldn't bear to sell it or rent it after she passed, not even a full year ago. Being in the apartment made it easier... if that makes any sense. But I was...AM lonely and a little lost too.

I turn the key in the lock, jamming it a little. I enter the apartment tripping over the raised doorjamb. The walls are coated with thick peeling plaster and the ceiling is sagging. The floors were scuffed and worn to the point that if I didn't live here the landlord would tear down the whole apartment complex down and redo it.

"I'm home!" I call to no one in particular as I plop down in an overstuffed chair that my mother fell in love with when she visited relatives in Venice, It smelled like Walker's Worcestershire Sauce Potato Crisps. My mum's favorite. A tear slips from my eyes and I let myself cry. Suddenly the buzzer sounded and a familiar voice came over the intercom.

"Hello? Is Kenna there?" He asks.

"Just a moment," I wipe the moisture from my eyes and breathe deeply. "I'll let you in." On my way through the hall,  I stop in the sitting room and I reach out to put jazz music on the old Bermuda record player, which teeters on old pointy eighties style legs.

I open the door letting my Winston into the small flat. He hugs me without really taking notice of my tear stained face and simply turns to put his scarf on the coatrack. 

"Good afternoon darling." He says dropping several plastic bags on the sagging kitchen table. "I brought dinner!" He turns around and pecks me on the cheek, still taking no notice. But this time I think I'm glad, that Winston is so ignorant.

I brush back my curly blonde hair and smile at him.

"How was work?" The annual question that could get him talking all night. Winston dumps out the bag revealing angel hair pasta, instant marinara sauce, buttery rolls from "Anderson and Son's bakery", and ingredients for chocolate chip biscuits. I get out a stainless steel bowl from the polished white cabinet and two cookie sheets.

"Peter Sanderson was at it again!" Winston complained gently moving me aside so he could get to the microwave holding the jar of marinara sauce in his big soft hands. Winston worked at an advertising company, and apparently, he worked on the same floor as all the company's biggest idiots "He really thinks people will want to buy candy with a rat on it." This was something we'd been discussing for about a week now.

"A mouse," I corrected. Winston rolled his eyes and pulled the jar out of the microwave, the smell of the sauce flooding the little white kitchen. Jazz music rolled in through the open door and I began to sway to it, Winston noticed and took my hand spinning me around while setting the jar of sauce on the messy counter. We danced until the little kitchen timer yelled at me to take the biscuit batter out of the mixer. I laughed and pulled free, the record player started to falter and Winston left the room to fix it.

A little while later the angel hair was good and cooked and Winston and I were seated on the floor eating off the coffee table watching "Not Another Happy Ending" for the hundredth time. He'd taken me to see it our first date, which wasn't that long ago but still felt like an eternity.

After the movie finally ended and we were both too nauseous to actually eat any of the biscuits I made. Winston got up to head back to his even smaller flat on the top floor, we parted with a goodnight kiss and I watched him go all the way up the stairs. Once again alone in my late mum's flat. It's hard to hold back tears when you're alone, so I crawl back to the sitting room to watch "Bend it Like Beckham" While it is a sore waste of my time I still enjoy watching it. I'd rather be lost in Jess' problems rather than my own.