Dark Roast (short story)

Dark Roast

by: Michael Bryan

                Maria had grown so tired of her daily routine. The realization that her life was deliberately passing her by lazily pressed upon her like a scratch in the back of her throat before catching a cold or coming down with the flu. The weight of this realization had burrowed into her consciousness and had begun to claim more and more territory. At first, it was just a shadow that was easily lost in the fading red bricks and art inspired shop signs that spread before her daily like an industrial art gallery.  Lately, it was a blaring alarm screaming its symphonic interpretation of the mundane, suffocating her creativity and rendering impotent her passion for life.

                “What do you think, babe? Do you want to try the dark roast today? Maybe a little soy milk as well? Oh, I know. How about an extra shot of espresso?” Patrick said to her with the infuriating enthusiasm that only the dull and boring can muster. It was just coffee for Christ’s sake. Patrick would talk about a new cup of coffee like others talked politics, art or music. The way she used to talk about those things . . . with passion.

                “Sure honey, let’s live a little today” she hissed sarcastically at him.

                “Fantastic” he replied, completely oblivious to her tone. It wasn’t even a tone at this point, it was an outright plea for aid. Help me! She would scream into her mind, trying weakly to chip away at the concrete foundation poured into the solid forms fastened by routine.

“I’ll go grab us a table,” she spat. “Why don’t you wait and grab the drinks.” At least she could feel the adrenaline rush of choosing where to sit. She always picked the window. She liked to observe other people as she blithely sipped her coffee, longing for adventure. Maria wasn’t a daredevil. She didn’t have the need to skydive, plant her flag on some foreign mountain summit or scream black streaks on the back of a motorcycle at 120mph. She just wanted something different, something more than the missionary position and dark roast.

Maria burned for a real man, dangerous and unpredictable. A powerful, passionate man who could make her scream in ecstasy. Patrick was not a man. He was hipster cool with his black framed glasses, ironic flannel shirts and pomade slicked hair. On first appearance, he looked like the man she wanted and it was nice to pretend with him; however, after a while, she identified him as a fraud. He was the dollar store knockoff, camouflaged in shirts that would never see a drop of grease and hands that would never turn a wrench, get a drop of blood on them or touch her in the way she needed.

As she plodded towards an open table, grimy yet clean in only the way public furniture can be, she noticed a man sitting alone. He was reading an old nondescript book, yellowed and worn, quietly sipping his coffee. As she brushed past him, he looked up at her and effortlessly twisted the left side of his mouth into a subtle smirk, narrowing his eyes a bit which intensified their speckled auburn coloring. She stabbed a conspirator’s grin towards him, exposing her pearl white teeth, lightly stained from the daily coffee and the tar of a social smoker.

“Hi,” he said, “how’s your day?” His voice, with a subtle rasp, echoed off the windows behind her.

“It’s going just fine, thank you. How about you?” She whispered back, not wanting to raise her voice to a level where Patrick might hear. “Just waiting for my coffee, you know how complicated a coffee order has become these days.”

“Not for me, I always just drink mine black with two sugars. Coffee shouldn’t be complicated, you know.” He tightened his face a little and nodded towards Patrick.

She could feel the sudden rush of blood painting her face pink. She noticed the painting above the man. It was a retro inspired painting which said “Ski Vail” and showed caricatures of people in embroidered snowflake sweaters skiing fresh snow and warming themselves by massive stone fireplace as a blizzard raged outside. It was pop culture at its finest, exactly the type of art you would expect to see in a coffee shop.

The floodwaters of fantasy quickly enveloped her consciousness. They were in Vail, effortlessly sliding down jagged mountain peaks as the sun lightly branded their exposed cheeks the ruddy color that only comes from being active outdoors. They sat by the fire and talked, she lightly snickering and touching his arm, lost in one another in only the way that true lovers can.

She snapped out of her daydream with a renewed purpose. She decided it was time to take charge and stop complaining about life. He was going to be her salvation, delivering her from the bondage of complacency. She quietly wrote her number down winked at him and whispered, “Give me a call.” She quietly moved to an empty booth away from the stranger, ready to tell Patrick it was over.

Satisfied, she slid into the booth with a renewed purpose. Suddenly, the police burst into the shop, grabbed the man and violently slammed him to the worn tile floor, handcuffing him.  

“We finally got you, you sick bastard,” snarled one of the officers. “We found the heads. . .you’re gonna rot for this forever.”

The man looked over at her, the shock splashed across her face and bent his mouth into a grin. “All I wanted was just one more,” he whispered and blew her a kiss as he was rushed out the door.