A/N: Hi, guys.
This is a quick one that I kinda forced myself to write just because I wanted to write but had no ideas. I'm also taking a little break from my Child of Our Golden Sun story while I come up with ideas for it (but if you've got any comment away.)
This is from the POV of an outsider, a waitress or what have you (I didn't specify so you're free to imagine what you will) in a coffee shop.
TW: Major Character(s) death(s). So Angst. Lots of it, but implied? Nothing graphic or stated outright.
Title from the children novel Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt.
Enjoy! Yell at me in the comments about your tears.
She comes into the coffee shop, like clockwork, at 10 AM every day.
She's bright; braided hair rivaling the sun's radiance, and soft eyes warmer than its rays.
She addresses everyone with a polite greeting, a private greeting, a personal greeting that asks about people's families and people's pets and people's wellbeing.
She sits in the back corner, in the last booth beside the window overlooking sidewalk.
The staff has her order memorized; she's long stopped going to the counter because no sooner than she's settled into her seat does her order appear.
A single sticky bun, and a cup of black coffee.
A sugary treat to go with her sweet smile; a treat to match her soft demeanor, match a personality lacking any sharp points or abrupt stops or rude edges.
The coffee is disorienting and ill-fitting, like a single intrusive tempestuous cloud hanging directly in the middle of an otherwise bright blue sky; dark and bitter and almost hostile, offering a glimpse into a shadowy corner where the sun has been purposefully blocked out, almost pushed out with sheer brute force. A rejected light.
She sits silently and she stares outside and she sips her coffee slowly.
She never stays more or less than one hour.
She never comes in with anyone, never meets anyone. Doesn't ever seem to be occupied with her phone either, like she doesn't have any use for it.
There have been a few days, sporadic and seemingly random – though a pattern has long been detected by the staff who have come to expect it, who have come to speculate about anniversaries and birthdays – when a tall handsome man joins her.
They have the same warm eyes, and the smile he aims at her – broken around the edges – almost matches hers, though not quite as bright, not quite as strong.
He has the same order as she does, though he always caves after exactly two and a half sips of his coffee, and adds three packets of sugar to his.
They don't say anything, they don't even look at each other beyond the first smiles they share in greeting upon his arrival.
The hour is spent staring out the window.
On certain days, when her smile has been less content and her eyes have held a rage often aimed at unfairness, he waits until his order arrives and he's gone through his sugar ritual before reaching across the table – still unseeing – and covers her free hand with his.
On those days, the hour is spent staring out the window, but with a warm hand grounding her, steadying her quivering chin, helping building a dam for her tears.
The staff loves speculating. A favorite guess is that she's an alien who has lost her way back home and is now stranded on Earth. Another is that she's waiting for someone, a meeting with a long lost lover meant to meet her here after a number of years have passed if they still love her.
My theory is a sad one.
A theory of loss; lost love and lost family, and lost friends.
Just loss.
Loss written in the crinkle between fair brows.
Loss painted in the weary edges of her smiles.
Loss slashed in the unfocused squint of her eyes.
Loss straining against proud broad shoulders that won't bend or break or bow down to the grief.
Loss that will never be remedied or lessened or substituted with something less painful.
Gaping loss, breathtaking in its pain, unyielding in its weight, relentless in its devastation.