Coffee and Tips

A short story

Disappointment is a figment of the frail human imagination; a crutch upon which we lean our struggles and heartaches so as not to burden ourselves with the responsibility of our own choices.


She shifted in her seat, finding rest in yet another awkward position. Her right foot somehow flexed with hesitation, her torso twisted and strained in order to maintain stability atop this impudent flamingo of a barstool, perching on its single steel rod and mocking all who believe its scheme to pass as a chair an insincere attempt. If this stool were given the talent of speech, an unlikely but seemingly impending affair, it would say something along the lines of “try to sit on me bitch, I dare you.” As the offer would be an open invitation for possible failure, she would certainly accept the challenge and she would not fail. She never does, or so she’d always believed.

Surely the inability of her feet to touch the seafoam green, a color that had always repulsed her to the point of fever, linoleum from this odd totem of sorts contributed to her irritation with the stool. Her tiny effeminate frame had an overwhelming capacity to delight suitors and to ignite jealousy among other women, but was also the cause of many an untouched floorboard, which her toes at that moment so longed to kiss. If only for a second, that mutual exchange of sincerity between her toes and the flooring would be more intimacy than she’d experienced in months. And how she desperately longed for that instantaneous chill of ecstasy! Besides, her toenails were such a pretty shade of pink. A kiss would only be the appropriate form of flattery. Once, she extended her leg towards the ground, as if on pointe, but for fear of being seen, quickly returned to another pretzel-like formation in the stool. She didn’t touch the floor again until the bill had been paid and the waitress tipped.
If not for the difficulties of her stature, the overly starched pleats of her skirt usually prevented her from finding comfort in any chair. She had become so accustomed to the aches and pains of beauty—a lamentation so frequent among women that it is almost a rite of passage into the status of being a female adult—that the uncooperative pleats were far more welcomed than the disobliging male seated directly across from her.

The cherubic waitress occupied his eyes with her perfect, almost choreographed display of her petite waist and childbearing hips, though she was nowhere near age to bear a child, let alone be with a man. He always did like them young and potentially illegal. His hands were busy making miniature cobras out of paper straw wrappers and his mind, engaged with the score of the game going on, thought about how the outcome would be so negatively affected by his choice to meet her here instead of support his team. She had none of him. He was entirely to himself. She had no idea there was a game. She probably didn’t even know the sport. Honestly, it didn’t matter.

But he always did like to make those paper straw cobras, using the naked straw as a flute to charm the figures, and as a bonus, happening to charm her with the little tear-dropped shaped dimple that appeared on his cheek as he blew into the straw. The little tear-drop would appear occasionally when he laughed, which was an occasion in and of itself, and would also grace her with its presence when he threw a fit, which is when she first and most noticed it. It’s likely that he made the paper cobras not for anyone’s amusement but his own as means to prevent his simple mind from falling into the trap of an intelligent conversation. Words, especially those longer than one syllable, always could expose his inability to express or acknowledge cognitive ideals, making him look weak. He would rather make paper straw cobras than risk becoming even slightly emasculated because of his ignorance. He wouldn’t charm the cobras he was making then. It was too much of a risk.

“Damn pleats” she thought. “And I hate stools anyways because they were always pretending to be chairs. If you’re not a chair, don’t act like a chair, especially if you’re a pretentious one. What does it matter anyways if the floor is seafoam green? I’m better off making friends with my embarrassment than acknowledging his presence in this meeting, or lack thereof. It’s better to have a fever than be lonely.”

She was terribly hypocritical in the things she chose to hate, seeing that she at that very moment was pretending to be some entity above and beyond herself. For him, who would not notice either way if she were being herself or not since he was captivated with the task of an almost complete family of paper cobras. Any other man would be awestruck, even made defenseless by her heroic, tempting gaze. That dress alone, which she had so carefully chosen for this particular occasion, would make every man but this one weary from trying to resist her charm.

In all honesty, she was lowering herself by even being there. There, in that shoddy diner that served little more than chicken fingers, cheeseburgers, and French fries, hardly an appetizing menu for someone over the age of seven. She didn’t eat solid food anyways so it wasn’t a big deal. She’d picked up the habit of drinking coffee for every meal instead of wasting her time chewing and swallowing food; eating, after a while, was so daunting, so repetitive and the food loses all its taste before it’s even swallowed. So what was the point in trying? Coffee was always delicious, so she was having coffee—two creams, one sugar. He’d ordered some variation of a steak sandwich as usual, probably with no lettuce or tomato and extra mayonnaise. Mayonnaise disgusted her, especially in large quantities. Any condiment in large quantities made her gag.

She was talking. She hadn’t noticed that she’d been carrying on for quite some time and she couldn’t remember exactly what she had said. It was possible that it was an unimpressive investigation about the gambles of life and love. However, it was more than likely a dissertation on the current and future weather patterns of the area. The conversation was plain and boring. Surely it would have been more interesting if he had said a few words, but that was not his intention. He had only came because he thought she wanted to sleep with him, but upon learning that the invitation for dinner was merely for company and conversation, his spirits were drastically altered and his contribution to the discourse became reduced to a few grunts and unintelligible syllables. So she continued talking. Finally, the busty, broad hipped waitress brought the check and he paid, not because he was being generous but because he wanted the waitress to think him a gentlemen. For a tip, he left his number.