Miss Cavalera
Se always got herself thinking on how the strong, lingering taste of coffee completed the sharp, reckless taste of alcohol in her irish coffee. It was natural, an obvious mixture of power and irresponsibility, and as the steam of the freshly brewed beverage ascended to warm up her cold face she mused on how her favorite drink reflected her personality so easily.
You are what you drink, she thought, sipping from the cup. It was smooth and almost sweet; burned her cracks closed, misleadingly healing the countless bruises and wounds made through the years.
"Len..." She said, resting her head on the glass wall by her side. "I think I'm drunk."
"Why is that, miss?" The boy answered, while rubbing a supposedly clean rag in a glass before putting it back on the self behind him.
She smiled.
"I'm comparing myself to my irish coffee."
"Do you want me to take you home, miss Cavalera?"
"No, hell, no. I just-"
"You could use some rest. Tomorrow's gonna be a rough day." Len leaned to the wood to watch the shadows of the rain drops that touched the windows dance in the woman's face. The dark small figures streamed along her pale skin. Illusions that caressed her. The sound of the pouring rain a sweet lullaby. He rested the dishcloth in the balcony and placed his hands on her cup, subtly taking it away from her.
"Everyday is rough." She explained, seemingly not noticing. "He used to say that to me, my dad. Son of a bitch is dead for decades, still hunts me like fucking ghost of christmas-past."
"Miss, you are definitely drunk." He almost smiled.
She laughed numbly, and then said "That's no excuse to stop drinking. Give me back my irish."
"Miss Cavalera, your blood will turn into alcohol, at this rate."
"I wish." She waited for him to put the cup back in front of her and finished it's contents, looking through the window again. The sky was already tar, colored dimly by the shades of white and yellow in the streetlights and the neon signs. A typical new yorker’s night. A typical night for Harriet Cavalera. " I truly wish."
You are what you drink, she thought, sipping from the cup. It was smooth and almost sweet; burned her cracks closed, misleadingly healing the countless bruises and wounds made through the years.
"Len..." She said, resting her head on the glass wall by her side. "I think I'm drunk."
"Why is that, miss?" The boy answered, while rubbing a supposedly clean rag in a glass before putting it back on the self behind him.
She smiled.
"I'm comparing myself to my irish coffee."
"Do you want me to take you home, miss Cavalera?"
"No, hell, no. I just-"
"You could use some rest. Tomorrow's gonna be a rough day." Len leaned to the wood to watch the shadows of the rain drops that touched the windows dance in the woman's face. The dark small figures streamed along her pale skin. Illusions that caressed her. The sound of the pouring rain a sweet lullaby. He rested the dishcloth in the balcony and placed his hands on her cup, subtly taking it away from her.
"Everyday is rough." She explained, seemingly not noticing. "He used to say that to me, my dad. Son of a bitch is dead for decades, still hunts me like fucking ghost of christmas-past."
"Miss, you are definitely drunk." He almost smiled.
She laughed numbly, and then said "That's no excuse to stop drinking. Give me back my irish."
"Miss Cavalera, your blood will turn into alcohol, at this rate."
"I wish." She waited for him to put the cup back in front of her and finished it's contents, looking through the window again. The sky was already tar, colored dimly by the shades of white and yellow in the streetlights and the neon signs. A typical new yorker’s night. A typical night for Harriet Cavalera. " I truly wish."