(no subject)
It was 8:01 and there he was, sitting, drinking from what might as well have been the same cup before. The coffee might as well have been the same old, sitting, cold brew he'd left that evening. Odds are they were. The three overhead fans were spinning their oversized wooden blades through the same air, circulating the same ancient dust probably, at least at this point, from his battered sneakers. The same once-white shoes that have lost, if they ever had, their brand. Lauren was opening. Maybe when that cup of coffee was fresh and newly-molded, the girl was freshed face. Shaun had to question if the cup was ever newly-molded. Oddly enough, he never gave her face question. Or the coffee it was holding.
She smiled that old, tired smile at the familiar face of a man far too young to already be swept into a place like this. He was that dime that looked like a penny that got swept under the rug. If he'd ever seen it like that, the walls, yellow with age, dirt, food and smoke, would have begged to be called the dust pile. All he saw was the ketchup smear far too high up and he made a new story for it every day. Today it had fallen from the roof, a genius child’s test of ropes and pulleys gone astray. Maybe that child was Lauren. Maybe she was a genius but the failure of that poisonous red spot had bonded her like an arcane spell.
Maybe, though, it was just a bottle squeezed too hard.
Probably the genius thing, though.
He smiled back and raised the pre-filled glass. Only if the room had been packed could he have possibly stood out more. Unkempt black hair bobbed as he moved. None of that hipster, darker-the-better black, but natural, normal black. Asian Black. As well it should have been, as seeing his parents were. And, without the excuse of adoption, he was very much Asian himself. His skin was dark, an early-summer tan in the middle of winter without the slightest effort. If only they’d seen under his under shirt to just how pasty he was. It was a thought that he considered often enough to bring joy to his dark, nearly black eyes.
“Lauren,” he said, “my urban rose, how are you this fine morning?”
A scoff, maybe flirting in days past, now kindly if not bitter, came from the waitress as she scrubbed down the bar, the marble peeling at the ends, the twisting design revealing the true, circular being of the wooden platform. “Hun, it ain’t mornin’ yet.”
“Well, it surely isn’t night!” his voice raised, sparkling with amusement.
“You’re right. But it’s not mornin’, that’s for sure. It’s…Nothin’ time.”
“Nothing Time…You are indeed right, dear!” His cup, nearly empty, raising. “Here is to the brave adventurers who plunge themselves into Nothingness.”
She shrugged helplessly, grinning as he tapped the unmarked bottle of some mix of what had to be water, acid and a liquefied lemon. Tipping the glass over, Shaun takes a peer in. Things seem to check out as he downs the liquid rolling at the bottom of the ceramic. Clay rings against the marbawood, sourced from the cup being brought down. Normally, the idea of marbawood, or at very least the reverberation, would have caught in Shaun’s mind. Today, however, it was the idea of Nothing. Nothing was in, on, about, was his mind. The adventurers of nothingness. If someone devotes themselves to nothing, what are they? Is it the same with the whole ‘You Are What You Eat’ thing?
Thoughts quickly evaporated from his mind as the scent of fresh, or at least hot, coffee clouded in. Through the fog, a form steps through, hovering.
“Nothing, Roy.” Shaun greets, recognizing the scent of Old Spice and gentle authority, which he swore was real.
“And Good Morning to you, Shaun. Nothing’s the word of the day, eh?” The crinkling of newspaper almost drowns out the large officer’s voice, but his order for “Eggs, not runny this time and Bacon, a bit more runny this time,” skids through just like his salutation.
“It’s the word of all days, Roy. And be nice, Goven’a,” Shaun begins in a bad English accent, “your food’s always good for the eating.”
“Yeah, Officer O’Pushy, have a heart.” Lauren grins, filling Roy’s cup. Or Shaun’s. The cup didn’t matter, so long as the action and results were the same. Identical cups, identical coffee, identical day.
“I’ll have a heart the moment proper chicken and pig are placed in front of me, thank you very much.” The sound of the older man’s broom of a mustache could be heard, brushing against the news of yesterday presented today.
Decided I'm only gonna update when it's in the right order, heh. Here's some.