Writer's Soundtrack

“I'm sorry, did you just mock me?” The words escaped Mikey's lips without his brain giving actual consent.

By the time his voice had reverted off of the glass walls and registered within his eardrums it was much too late to reach out and take them back. Although he wasn’t sure he would if the opportunity presented itself.

Brown eyes rolled irritably in their sockets at the stupid question. “No, it was a compliment,” she quipped sarcastically. “Now, like I said, we're closing.”

The gangly twenty-one year old narrowed his eyes at the fiery barista, his green irises involuntarily shooting to the golden battered watch that sat on his wrist. The ticking hands indicated that it was halfway past 10:13.

The quaint coffee shop technically didn’t close until the halfway mark between the current hour and eleven, and Mikey was never one to impose on someone for seventeen measly minutes that would be spent frustrated and getting nothing done, but for some unknown reason he truly felt as if the- now sixteen- extra minutes were vital to his progression.

Or at least that was his excuse, he supposed he also didn’t like the blatant disrespect that the young woman was giving him.

“I’ve got sixteen minutes actually.” He informed her smugly. The pink smirk that settled on his face all too tempting to be slapped away.

An exasperated sigh escaped Presley’s lips, thin fingers rushing up to pull through the strands of hair that sat atop her pounding head.

“You’re kidding,” she stressed, and the frustrated tone of her voice almost had Mikey second guessing his stubborn decision.

Almost.

His smirk only grew wider as his long phalanges wrapped themselves around the handle of the cream mug, bringing it to his lips and sipping on the cold coffee just for good measure. His eyes never left hers even as the bitter taste rushed down his throat with heavy distaste.

Relinquishing in an unladylike grunt of pure annoyance, Presley turned sharply on her heel marching over to the transparent doors and flipping the red and white sign so that it displayed the word “CLOSED” for all to see. Her stampede carried her behind the counter as she shut off all of the machines with finality, making sure that everything was wiped down and clean as if she were there alone.

To hell if she was going to put off closing for some tortured-artist green-eyed fuck who hadn’t moved in three hours. Presley Keegan was a woman who would not be inferior to anybody, and if some stranger thought he would be the one exception all because he had some inner crisis and an attitude problem then he had another thing coming.

After assuring that there was not a spot of caffeinated residue to be found behind the counter and double checking that all beans and flavorings were found in their proper place, she flipped a white rag over her shoulder and latched onto a plastic bottle of whatever store brand cleaner her boss had purchased. Her final task of the night was to wipe down all six tables and make sure they were just as meticulously cleansed as the rest of the shop.

Presley’s mind traveled elsewhere to a world of peace and warm blankets that was awaiting her at home; her eyes flickering to the clock that hung on the wall to find that the absolute closing time was still a long seven minutes away. Grunting and looking over to find the source of her utter unhappiness sitting lazily in the high-top chair, leaning back with his arms behind his head and icy eyes trained smugly on her.

She worried that her eyes might roll straight out of their sockets if they continued their rotation as often as they did since she first spoke to this stranger.

After finishing the ritual of wiping down all empty tables it became apparent that there was only one which she had yet to do: the cherry wood flattop currently occupied by her most recently acclaimed thorn.

Quickly coming to the realization that this final task would be enough to complete all of her closing duties before she had to lock up, she flipped the chemically dampened rag over her shoulder, cheap cleanser in hand, and marched over to the intolerable stranger.

“Get up.” she spat.

The demand didn’t startle Mikey in the way that she had surely intended, a fact that had his already present smirk growing alongside his ego. The out of character act of intentionally catching a stranger's nerves was proving to be immensely entertaining.

He swiveled coyly in his seat to face her; witty reply about the four minutes that he still have to sit in that very seat poised lethally on his tongue. It was when his green irises fell on the purple skin that resided comfortably beneath each brown eye that his response died in its place.

Presley looked exhausted the more he bothered to look at her. The prominent bags and slumped shoulders gave enough of that away. He could only imagine the heavy fatigue that may have set into her bones throughout her day, and it was just then with him that he was only making what could have been a horrible day for her much, much worse.

Biting his tongue and quietly gathering his laptop and mug, he stood up slowly; taking it upon himself to walk behind the employees only counter to place his used cup in the sink.

Presley was far too eager to finish her duties to bother to question his sudden kindness or the reason behind the mischievous glint in his eyes had dulled so suddenly, just like Mikey was far too quietly to formulate a proper apology for his undeniably shitty behavior.

“Does this need to be washed?”

Well, that was close enough.

Presley was sure she came close to snapping her neck when she whipped towards the timid voice. Each syllable that slipped past his lips quietly reaching her ears with a slight tremble.

Her voice was tired as she spoke back, giving him a defeated “yes” before she continued with the tedious movement of the rag across the polished table top.

As Mikey turned the shining nozzle on the sink, he thought things were over. Washing dishes, or cleaning anything really, had become a bit of a hazed, thoughtful routine after years of adolescent resentment for the activity; a place that once gave life to pointless daydreams now giving a home to his deepest thoughts. While dragging the soap soaked sponge across the cream ceramic, he thought about many issues that were troublingly problematic at the moment.

Mikey scrubbed the cup and realized things, like the fact that he couldn’t even write the first sentence of 'chapter one' without each attempt making him want to throw his head into the wall, or the fact that the only human interaction he’s had in two weeks aside from his publisher and mother was a moderately good looking young woman and he had made an impression so completely and utterly horrible that he would have to make sure his rusted two door didn’t get followed home. He wondered momentarily if she had a boyfriend; what if she did and he was an aggressive biker with a beard thicker than the damn forest and a teardrop tattoo- what if he had multiple teardrop tattoos?

Green eyes momentarily widened to new expanses upon his realization that his sour and uncalled for attitude towards a random barista could possibly cost him his life. Mikey couldn’t die; he hadn’t published a book yet; if he died without his writing published then his mother would win.

“I’m Mikey by the way,” he informed her nervously, wiping a white towel along the already dry surface.

Presley sighed, stopping the revolution of her arm atop the rag and simultaneously deciding that the table was clean enough. 'I don’t care' didn’t seem to be the correct reply to the bipolar stranger whose name was apparently Mikey.

“Presley.”

A small smile threatened to overtake his face, chapped lips twitching slightly upwards at the corners before he stopped it. "So," he drawled awkwardly, placing the mug on the shelf alongside the others and hoping that some words of polite conversation would keep him in her good graces (and by default, safe from her possible convict boyfriend).

"Are you a student?" He asked, the question being the only reasonable question he could think to ask. Presley looked close to his age and certainly mature enough to be a student.

"No," she bit, every decibel cutting through the warm, coffee-stained air with the ease of a broad sword. Mikey flinched at her icy tone knowing he deserved it, but not entirely grateful for it.

"Oh."

His voice was strained, but he nodded viciously along with her words as if he was overly empathetic about her seemingly hatred for both him and the idea of furthered education. His head bobbed up and down as if he understood the rage and bitterness simmering behind those two letters when, in reality, he had no idea.

The girl didn't even bother to respond as she walked across the café and brushed by the stunned silent man to hang the used rag alongside the others.

Mikey honestly had no idea how to console the girl and make up for the unnecessary rudeness that he had used only minutes earlier. He was so truly unsure how to console the damage he did that he was lost to the fact that the clock was currently ticking halfway past 10:33.

Petite fingers curled around the black leather of her jacket, lifting it until it was at such a height that it no longer hung lifelessly to the rung of the coat rack before she slipped her slender arms through the sleeves. Shrugging the remainder of the material around her shoulders and gracefully untucking her entrapped hair, she turned tiredly to the bespectacled nuisance.

“Look, Mikey,” she sighed, “I appreciate you trying to make it up to me for you being, well, an asshole,” he winced, “but honestly I’ll forgive and forget if you do just one thing for me.”

His downcast green eyes shot up to meet her slightly reddened face, a new kind of hopeful fire burning within them.

“Leave.”

The word wasn’t curt or rude, but instead leaking with exhaustion and surrender. Presley truly was willing to forget the nuisance that walked into her workplace and made her night longer than it needed to be if he allowed her to go home now.

And Mikey wanted to let her go- truly he did- but he did not want to leave without proper reconciliation to the girl without fully making anything up to her. But the empty, exhausted look swirling around in her dark irises made the decision for him, and without looking back he clutched his jacket and slung the strap of his laptop case over his shoulder; silently making his way out the transparent front doors.

Notes