foolhart

help me     His brain shudders even as he smiles, pushes the hair out of his eyes, looks down- just for a moment- and then back at her again. Why him? Why should he be given the gift of such attention? He wipes his hands on his pant legs, his hands are cold, clammy, they feel so awkward, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. The tiny, beautiful woman beams up at him with the relaxed confidence that comes from knowing she has this effect on others. Her iridescent wings are folded, legs crossed provocatively, toe making lazy circles in the air as she sits atop an overturned shot glass on the bar. She’s like nothing he

     Exterior, evening. The store is set into a row of average buildings on the main street of a college town roughly 2,500 miles from Portland, OR. The dirty grey sidewalk meets a sturdy brick storefront, inset with massive windows framing a doorway set back from the street. Large black and gold letters printed on the glass read “Reverie . . . Coffee.” Immediately behind the windows are rough wooden shutters, painted a deep forest green, knotwork painted in a flowing hand around the edges in a brassy metallic paint. A warm glow worms its way between the slats of wood, welcoming those on the street in teasingly, without betraying

    A bell rings and candles flicker as the rough cut wooden door swings open. Eyes dart furtively towards the momentary cavalcade of flurried snow and traffic noise before returning to papers, books, and softly-spoken conversations. A steaming mug, glass, or bottle accompanies every patron, and before your coat even lands on the wall of hooks and cubbies in the heavily scented entryway the proprietress’ lithe form has noiselessly sidled next to you. Her strong hands ease a rectangular brown bottle into your hands, her lips brushing your cheek, leaving you to wonder if the memory just lost at her touch was at all important. The price ha