God's Gift Chapter 2

A continuation of the worst man in the world, or maybe just Los Angeles. Fiction.

Sex is probably the single most inspiring act on the planet, other than an occasional shrooms trip, of course. Though I saw no hope for a future with Via, I truly wanted the best for her and it really seemed like she needed me in that moment. 

That was last night. I had left early this morning, careful not to wake her up. She looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb her sleep. I also really didn’t want to kiss someone with morning breath. 

It was now 7 am and I was sitting by myself in my favorite coffee shop. I ran a hand through my hair, careful not to knock over my black coffee. I only ever ordered black coffee. I don’t particularly enjoy the taste, but I see it as a way to tap into the bitterness of masculinity, following in the footsteps of my predecessors, Hemingway, Voltaire, probably others. I took a rare sip and let the bitterness coat my tongue, scowling like I was in deep thought to avoid wincing. At least alcohol gets easier to drink the drunker you get. Coffee just sort of sits there, the aftertaste being even worse than the initial one. I followed my coffee with the sip of ice water, covertly swishing away the taste, and turned back to my notebook.

I was using a fountain pen, and all that lay on the page was a stray blot of ink. I was totally, completely at a loss. I think that was my main issue with Via. She didn’t inspire me. She was never a muse, and she only ever read smut. I almost wish I hadn’t fucked her last night. But that would go against one of my fundamentals of releasing regret, step one in functioning as a social anarchist. I decided instead of wishing I hadn’t fucked her, I wished that she had not been in such a fragile place mentally that I couldn’t ethically abandon her. This absolved both of us of blame as she can’t help her sensitivity and I couldn’t have overlooked my concern for her.

I tapped my pen to paper, leaving another splotch. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the barista looking at me. I pretended I couldn’t see her as I lowered my brows and scribbled fervently on the page.

“This is me writing, test, test, The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.”

I exhaled the way one does after climax and took another sip of coffee, this time making sure to look pensively off into the distance like I was really considering something. I caught the eye of the barista, who blushed. I didn’t take my eyes off of her, as I took the time to really examine her.

She was pretty, in a girl next door kind of way. The vulnerability of her embarrassment was a turn on. She was in many ways Via’s opposite, even more so than her cousin. Where Via was blonde and tan this girl had fiery red hair and skin so pale it looked translucent. When she blushed it seemed to envelope her whole body. Her nose was crooked, but her profile seemed to be otherwise standard. She looked like she had a theater major, which meant she probably didn’t grow up beautiful, which meant she would be easily impressed by me, which I liked. I was still looking at her when she finally looked back up at me. I saw the tiny red tip of her tongue quickly trace her upper lip, as if it was wicking sweat off a forehead. I looked at my page, empty except for two ink blots and a single nothing sentence. I was absolutely in need of inspiration, given that Via had so sorely disappointed me last night. 

I closed my notebook and tucked it into my jacket pocket, picked up my coffee cup, which was now half full, and made my way to the barista, who looked like she was about to crawl out of her own skin.

“How much is a refill?”

I knew that she wouldn’t charge me for half a cup of drip coffee. Even so, I saw her bite her lip and look over her shoulder, off into the distance like she was trying to make sure the coast was clear. This irritated me. It was half a cup of coffee. It wasn’t gonna break the bank. I kept my composure, but imagined a little tally mark scraping the skin between her two eyebrows. 

Strike one.

“Here,” she whispered, whisking the cup from my hand and filling it to the brim. Also annoying, as I would have to take a large sip in order to prevent it from spilling over as I walked back to my seat. I held her eyes as I took a gulp, the hot liquid burning my tongue. Fortunately, I was able to mask the pain as a semi-bored looking blink. I was starting to hate this girl. I grimaced as I felt the heat of the coffee searing the inside of my throat and secretly hoped that she would misconstrue it as judgment of her and take it personally. Her eyes were back on the floor, looking just past my John Varvatos Morrison boots. I remembered when Via asked me if they were Blundstones and I almost had an aneurysm. I tried to remember if that was before or after I slept with her cousin, but I couldn’t pin down the exact time.

In the time I had taken to give myself a second degree burn and reflect on past disappointments three seconds of pure silence had passed. My eyes were trained on hers which were trained on the floor. I would let her speak first.

“Do you… come here often?” She blushed at her question, clearly a novice at casual flirtation. I smiled.

“I do.” My smile faltered. “I… did,” I corrected myself looking away.

“Oh.”

I could tell she didn’t know what to say so I took another breath, forcing tremors to shake my voice. If you think it’s hard to sound like you’re not about to cry when you’re devastated, imagine how hard it is to sound devastated when you’re about to lie through your teeth.

“My girlfriend,” I paused here to gauge the look on her face, which was disappointed. Excellent. “My girlfriend used to live around here.”

Her blush turned crimson and she looked as though she were going to sink into the ground.

“Oh, did she move?” She had injected a phony airiness into her voice that told me just how disappointed she was. 

“No, she, uh,” I swallowed. “She died. This time last year.” I imagined a world where Via had gotten into a car crash with her cousin and had died in a tragic display of spattered red and shards of chrome. My eyes remained dry until I reminded myself that in this situation we would have been exclusive, and suddenly tears began to cloud my vision. I looked away from the redhead and swiped at my eyes, feeling the heat of a blush on my own cheeks. I was embarrassed for showing this side of myself to her so soon, even if it was manufactured.

In a swift, but bold move, the girl took my hand, lightly caressing my knuckles with her thumb.

“I’m so sorry.” I knew she wanted to take my hand, and I had just provided her with an opportunity, so I didn’t feel like I was really lying.

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t think it still had this much effect on me.” 

“That sounds traumatic, of course it still hurts.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the flagrant use of therapy speak. This is how I knew it would be easy from here.

“I don’t even know your name and you’re already comforting me,” I said. She was still holding my hand.

“Sophia.”

“Meaning wisdom? Sounds apt.”

I used to study common girls’ names and their origins to impress random women I’d meet in bars. 

She smiled shyly, her hand growing clammy, which I decided to overlook.

“I guess. What’s your name?”

“Ryan.”

“I wish I knew what your name meant off the top of my head.”

“You could find out.”

Her eyes widened as they met my own. I pulled my moleskine from my pocket and ripped out the back page, which stung a little bit, to be honest. But it seemed worth it at the time. I wrote my name and number, folded the piece of paper, and placed it in her palm.

“I want you to,” I continued, giving her one last meaningful look before turning and heading towards the door. I left the now mostly full cup of coffee on the counter and didn’t look back, heading straight for the Starbucks down the block. I ordered an iced vanilla latte on the mobile app and pretended it was for my girlfriend. My heart ached at the thought. The one who had died so tragically, maybe.