Satan's Coffee Shop

The patio off the coffee was picturesque. Potted flowers sat between cast iron decorative tables. Everyone who sat near the flowers had a strange articulate glow. Busboys and busgirls dragged their feet to pick up saucers with muffin crumbs, following the strict protocol of the management. He sat in the corner next to the ashtray as to not slowly kill the clientele with his second-and smoke. He was waiting for someone, a friend. Well, she was an acquaintance, rather. She was never on time, a fly-by-night kind of girl. He didn’t really know why he agreed to see her. She asked and he was lonely, so he thought, why not? It had been a while and he was lonely. They had nothing in common and he was pretty sure she venerated Satan. Some sort of satanic symbol was tattooed on her ankle, which fueled his suspicion. The coffee cup in front of him was filled with coffee grounds and lukewarm leftovers. He figured it was time for another cup but when he reached into his pocket. Money was sparse, which wasn’t quite surprising for someone of his employment. He looked down at the yellow college lined pad. It had seen better days. You would never think that lines on a piece of paper would be mercurial but a splash of coffee can run the red. He was experiencing a bit of writer’s block in the middle of a sentence. The last word visible was myriad. A myriad of what exactly? He didn’t know yet. This coffee date was starting to become more of an annoyance than a pleasure. The sound of porcelain hitting the concrete rang in his ears. He looked up and saw a disgruntled employee blushing and reaching down to pick up scattered shards. The employees white button up was now stained with tan circles. The manager ran out win an inimical look in his eyes. He expected each employee to be a perfect pedant. The man with the cigarette and empty pockets had seen the manager lecture the employees when they had missed a button on his or her shirt. The manager was the barista equivalent to Hitler, give or take a genocide. Smoke billowed around his head. The more he waited the more his lungs took in. He was done. His bag was at his feet. Sliding the myriad of yellow paper into his bag, he stood up, ran his fingers through his hair, and downed the last of his coffee. There was a little gate that led out into an alley. He always liked to look at the new street art, no matter how awful it was. Trash lined the walls of either side, smelling exactly how an old refrigerator smelled. The smell changed as he reached the end of the alley. It turned metallic. He looked to his left. The bag full of yellow paper landed in a puddle. There, mere feet in front of him, was a severed foot with the same satanic symbol as his no show date. His annoyance was a disparity compared to her fate.

Reviews

[Christoph]

The tiny font and lack of paragraphs makes this a little difficult to read on my screen.

However, I really liked it. This doesn't spell anything out explicitly but gives a complete scene no less, and it's an extremely textured world we're getting a glimpse at.