Joes was a small, snug cafe tightly squeezed in between
a hairdressers and one of those brick buildings no-one quite
knows what to do with. It was fairly busy, most of the customers
being regulars, and the people serving knowing what they wanted
before they had even reached the counter. The interior was homey
and comforting; light cream walls and scruffy wooden flooring, a
constant smell of brewing coffee and sweet cakes hung like fog in
the air, encompassing anyone who entered.
For these reasons, and that it was always warm, this
was one of my favourite places in the world. I didn't like
modern, I didn't like money, which was a good thing too, since I
lacked it severely, but I liked coffee and warmth. I liked Joes.
Because in Joes everyone knew me as someone else, and that's who
I liked to be.
The coffee in my hands burned pleasantly against my
freshly cold skin, its dreamy smell wafting up into my face and
the taste stinging my tongue. That's how I liked my coffee; hot.
Even when summer decided to drag its tendrils of warmth over this
town, hot was the only way to drink it.
My black Song Ericsson vibrated lazily against my leg,
alerting me to a new message. With no kind of urgency I pulled my
hand away from the hot cup of coffee and down to my jean pocket,
slipping the phone into my hand and lifting it up to read the
Hey Krissy! I-
I rolled my eyes and deleted the text the moment I saw
who it was from. She just wasn't worth it anymore, she had moved
away, and needed to stay out of my life as far as I was now
concerned. That's what they say about young love, it never lasts.
And in regard to her, I intended to keep it that
In a movement comparative to a sloth, I pushed my phone
back into the tight denim of my jeans, and settled my hand back
onto the white china of my coffee cup.
Today was Wednesday; and I started every Wednesday,
regardless of the weather, the season, anything, in Joes with a
scorching cup of coffee. It was how I woke myself up on
Wednesdays, any other days of the week and I would quite happily
settle for a Starbucks coffee in a foam cup taken back to my
apartment. Wednesdays had always been special to
With a small smile playing around my lips, for no
reason other than the fact I was in Joes, I raised the coffee to
my lips, and took a long sip.
A line of delightful blue appeared along the side of my
canvas, demonstrating I had mixed the colours to the level of
perfection desired. I delicately dipped the fine paint-brush into
the blue and leant up close to the canvas, my tongue curving
around my lips in concentration.
This was pretty much my Wednesdays. Wake-up, shower,
change, go to Joes, come back home, paint, shower, sleep. I
didn't need to eat on Wednesdays, I ate every other day of the
week and I found it rather annoying and time-consuming to eat
every day. It may not be the healthiest of solutions, but I
didn't like gaining weight; I didn't like being anything but
I always told myself in high school that one-day I
would be tall and thin, and now that it had happened, I had no
drive to do anything with my life. I wasn't dumb, nor was I lazy,
I had qualifications, I just had no real reason to use them.
Money wasn't plentiful, but it didn't need to be, I didn't want
to be rich. Happiness could be achieved with a cup of coffee, a
paintbrush, and a cigarette. Big houses, Jacuzzis, expensive
clothing and servants did nothing for me.
Hours later I set down my paintbrush and took a step
back from my canvas, removing a cigarette from my mouth and
running my eyes up and down the piece of art I had been working
on. It wasn't much, a dark haired girl with a red dress peering
down over a bridge and watching an open-top boats procession down
an unnatural Caribbean-blue river.
yourself in a boat on a river,
tangerine trees and marmalade skies,
calls you, you answer quite slowly
A girl with
The Beatles drifted evenly through my apartment,
keeping the calm feeling Joes had given me. I liked that feeling
of quiet and calm, of coffee and cigarettes, of slow, vintage
music. My friend thought I was odd, out-of-touch, un-successful.
Well, I wouldn't really call them friends. They were more people
I talked to when I came across them every now and then. I didn't
need friends, I wasn't particularly social, and when I was in
education I had been rather...untactful to know.
All resulting in me being about as independent as one
can get, my foster parents had been somewhat of a suffocating
nightmare, and I vouched to keep to my space if they kept to
theirs. I haven't heard from them since I moved out three years
ago. I was glad, their loud high-pitched voices, lectures and
scolding's were sure to bring about a break in my blissful
With a tired-out sigh I pushed the end of my cigarette
into a nearby tray and dropped my paintbrush into my kitchen
sink, telling myself I would wash it tomorrow, like I always
There was just something I loved about