The Coffee Stop

"I'll just have a cup of coffee, please. No cream, no sugar, just black."

The soft, lazy melody of a jazz duet drifts though the coffee shop as I wait. The pair seamlessly match brass and voice, creating a smooth sensation that rests on the skin and dances in the ears. It's nothing memorable, a simple twist on an old Vaughan tune, but right now and right here, it's beautiful. I find myself humming along, trying to keep up with their rendition. Eyes shut, I bask in the warm feeling of anticipation. Today is going to be a good day.

"One coffee," chirps the barista, as she hands me a white mug filled with some exotic blend. Ethiopian, maybe. It's not like I can ever tell the difference. It could be coming from Jersey for all I know. Finding a comfy chair in the corner, I settle down amongst the hipsters and college kids. One sip tells me that the coffee's good. I guess that's all that really matters. Coffee's good, I'm good, music's good. Good, good, good.

Five thirty-five. I've got about twenty minutes before I need to pick her up. Maybe I should be late? She always jokes that I can never make it to anything on time. Tonight, I could be late on purpose. It would make for such a cute anecdote. Something to tell the kids, the grandkids. "Oh, you remember that night, honey," I would say. "Yeah, you were late, as usual," she'd quip back and we'd both laugh.

The jazz song crescendos then ends, mimicking my own giddy imagination. What was I thinking? Little mistakes lead to big mistakes, and women never like big mistakes. I've got my whole life to make little memorable moments, I don't need to force-feed them into some contrived Lifetime miniseries. But, damned if I didn't feel like I was living in some sort of sappy dream world right now.

In the background, the faux Vaughen switches to Holiday and kicks off a new song. I pull the small black box from my pocket and open it with a snap. The ring is beguiling in its simplicity. It's perfect, as she is.

I check my watch for the time. Five-forty. Nerves kick in. My thoughts race over every possible future, every imaginable outcome. I take a few more sips and leave the coffee half full on the table. An upbeat melody, some early Holiday tune, follows me as I grab the keys out of my pocket and hurry out the door.

Tonight, I will be early.

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Just a bit of fiction, thought up while listening to Jazz. "I" doesn't mean me in this case.

Autopsy

This morning, body still unbroken,
She arrived, inquired unspoken,
Why am I now a lifeless token?

To this end we did begin.
First, to pull back the skin,
Revealing the glance within.

Organ, fat, blood, and bile,
Lay as puzzle, tile by tile,
Waiting within, all the while.

Arteries hardened during life,
Speak of internal strife.
Truths divined with a knife.

But the fight twixt vessel and heart,
Is no answer, merely a part.
Atheroma, a truth, a start.

Next, upstream, to the source,
Through which, all blood must course;
Perhaps failure and loss of force?

A clinicians thought does dwell.
Blood enzymes, Doc's alarm bell,
When high, a danger do tell.

The lab report shows elevation,
So search we for correlation,
In the walls of this hearty station.

There, weak, useless, and pale,
Rests heart tissue, proof of fail.
Infarction tells a vicious tale.

Though one answer is revealed,
Another may yet be veiled.
Truths, a myriad in this field.

Under omentum, something hidden.
Deeper, away from eyes unbidden,
Lies the clue, the key, the incision.

First through blood, woefully misplaced,
And of such quantity that it defaced,
Her abdomen, wherein, twas incased,

The iliac as fount sanguinary.
That vessel meant to carry,
A catheter, unsatisfactory.

Here, we have struck difficulty,
Was it the heart that was faulty,
Or blood loss, as causality.

Even in death, it would seem,
Truth is not clear, but rather cream,
Nigh impossible to determine.

Meow

Meow!

Look at me! What is up there? Show me!
I want to eat the sausage.
Yuck.
I don't want to eat the sausage.

Meow.

What is up there? Pick me up! Show me!
Sausage again?
Boring.
Set me on the ground.

Meow?

Where are you going?
I have changed my mind.
I want the sausage.
No, move your hand.
I want the sausage!

Meow!!

Stop grabbing me!
I want the sausage!
Oh, yeah, I forgot.
Yuck.
I don't want the sausage.

Meow.

Wait, what is that?
Sausage?

Mr. Thompson

Fuck. They were after him.

Griffin Thompson glanced quickly in the grime-streaked rear view mirror. He couldn't see the black sedan with the tinted windows through the cloud of dust his old pickup was kicking up, but he was sure it was there. He had thought turning off the main road would loose them. It always worked in the movies. But he had caught glimpses of black, glints of sunlight off the metal through the trees on the tight curves. Now he was being chased down some God-forsaken dirt road, snaking his way through the back woods towards heaven knows what end.

He had to keep it safe. He had to keep it out of their hands.

The thought was the one thing standing between his sanity and complete panic. He had avoided looking at the silver briefcase sitting beside him on the cracked vinyl seat of the pickup, but it had never been out of his mind. He sharpened his resolve and pressed down harder on the accelerator, watching the endless forest speed by him in the sticky summer air. Still nothing in the mirror, but he knew that they wouldn't give up that easily.

The weathered sign flashed up so quickly that he didn't have time to read it. There must have been some business around here years ago, but it looked like the forest had done its job reclaiming most of it. Straight ahead, it looked like the ground sloped away and there was a clearing. Griffin couldn't see where the road went, but it must be there. If he could find one of the old company buildings fast enough, maybe he could hide the case where no one would find it. He pushed the gas to the floor and burst into the clearing.

Griffin knew it was too late. Not five feet from the edge of the woods stood the gaping mouth of an abandoned quarry. The wheels of the old pickup left the earth before he could even get his foot off the gas. His first thought was how quiet it was. Nothing but the hiss of the hot breeze through the open window as the truck traced a lazy arc toward oblivion. As the solid wall of limestone rose up to meet Griffin Thompson, he knew that the case and its contents would never be used.

____________________________________________

The black sedan drove slowly to the precipice and stopped. Two men in black suits stepped out and strode to the edge. What they saw at the bottom of the quarry was unrecognizable as anything but a smoking mound of twisted metal and rubber. There was no chance of survival. The driver raised a radio to his mouth.

"This is two. The subject is dead, but the tracker shows the object to be intact. Send a recovery team immediately."

The two men turned sharply, got back in their car, and drove silently into the wood.