International Writers Magazine: Dreamscapes
Where you goin?
know at the time that I met her, that she would change my life forever.
When I first met her, all I could think to myself, was Huh? Where
did this person come from? Why has God forsaken me, and send them
in my life? What could they possibly have to offer me?
I think of all
of these things as I sit in the coffeehouse, sipping on a hot chocolate
and watching the big, giant television that sits there like someone
had just sucked in their guts, took in a huge breath and just spit
out this television.
I gotta go study, Ma.
Where are you goin', and when will you be back?
I'm goin' to that coffeehouse 'roun the corner. Be back in a few.
Okay, well be careful and make sure you take the cell phone with you,
and make sure you park my car at the end of the parking lot, cause I don't
want any of those damned no-drivin' teenagers to tear up my precious car!
Okay, Ma! Got it.
Books. Miles and miles, rows and rows of endless books that moves up and
down the library walls like a fisherman moving on a dock to catch bait.
It doesn't seem like it is going to happen, and then it does. There is
nothing greater than the feeling of completion.
I sip my hot chocolate and look at the books on the library walls in the
coffeehouse. I want to throw my glass up against the window just to get
a reaction out of the people there. Everyone is ignoring me, and I wish
I were someplace where I was the center of attention. Since I know that
will never happen I turn my face back in time:
I'm grateful for you everyday; you know that, don't you?
No, I didn't know that.
Well, I do. I love you. Baby, I love you.
Boy, I love you too.
I've never loved a girl like you.
What you mean?
You know the whole black-white thing. Not that it matters. I just love
the way I feel when I'm with you.
Me too, babe, whateva you say.
Her name is Jasmine. I met her at the library.
Oh, yeah, what does she look like? Is she pretty? I know she's a brunette.
What makes you think she's a brunette?
Because I know you, Harry, man and you love brunettes.
Well, she's definitely a brunette.
Oh, yeah. What color are her eyes. Are her eyes blue, gray?
They're brown, or black I think.
What's wrong with you, man? You're acting funny.
I'm in love with this girl, she's beautiful, but . . .
Yeah, well, you know how my family feels about that.
Damn, your family sucks on that. They can really bite sometimes.
I can't even bring her home but to hell with them, you know.
I look out the window. This hot chocolate has a soothing, tranquil effect
on me. It gives me a high that not even a marijuana cigarette can. I make
love to my hot chocolate like only a burnt tongue can. This movie on the
television is really interesting. I see the people in it. I see Jasmine
and another girl. They are speaking about me:
His name is Harry, and I met him at that coffeehouse.
Harry? What kind of name is Harry?
Harry is a name. It's a guy's name, and he has it.
What's wrong with him? He got kids?
No, and why somethin' got to be wrong with him? Why can't we just kick
Cause I know you, and I know somethin' up. I can feel it. Your number
came up today.
I wish life were like a cup of hot chocolate, right when you first taste
it you get your tongue burned the shit out of you. It burns so bad; you
want to jump up, say, What the fuck! and slap the waitress across the
face for talking on the phone while making it, and not paying attention
to it. Nonetheless, it don't matter because it's slowly disappearing.
Your sips of it get bigger and bigger, and the hot chocolate gets smaller
and smaller. Television is like that too, so why can't life be like that?
I don't know much, but nothing could be better than what's going on right
now. My hot chocolate is gone, and I don't have enough money to get another
one. Oh, well. I'll just sit here, put my spoon inside of my cup, and
sip the tiny specks of it.
© Piper Davenport
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