Nov 2013
The less-than-tepid air stirred as Kieran walked the streets of his town, passing familiar shops and people all the while. He felt as though nothing held the ability to surprise him anymore. Each day seemed the same: he awoke with a heavy and slow start, went about his errands and studies, finished his tasks and went to the coffee shop on the corner of Adelaide and First Street, where he would take his usual seat by the window.
Today seemed to be no different. He entered the Red Brick Café, moving through the stiff door. He ordered his usual black coffee and placed his things on the table nearest to the window.
His load was slightly heavier today, large textbooks and journals weighing him down. Though he was only sixteen, he had already begun showing interest in studies far surpassing the average teenage parameters of notice. Before him lay the studies of Nietzsche and Marx, as well as several sheets of paper with his own scrawled handwriting, denoting his findings. Kieran had surpassed the term “average” years ago, even if his father had failed to notice it.
“Maybe if you would stop asking so many questions and started doing the crap they asked you to in school, you would pass your **** classes” he could recall his father saying to him after the last term.
Even still, he had not been the type to feel the need to please others. Kieran had always been focused on satisfying himself, his questions and his hunger for knowledge. He stopped at nothing to satisfy these basic needs.
“Medium Black?” the woman had called after preparing his coffee. He retrieved the cup, mismatched and morphed, as they all were in this store. It was part of what he had liked most about it – the mugs served in late summer with the Christmas patterns, the coarse orange glasses that stood on the same shelf. None of the dish wear matched, and he thought this was exactly what gave the shop its character.
He walked to the single leather couch pulled in front of the table overlooking the window. Through said window laid a perfect view of the people walking past on Adelaide Street. Often times, he had sat in this spot for hours simply watching people milling through the lives they wish they did not live, wondering all along whether they would decide to change.
He opened his new copy of The Introduction to Karl Marx, the crisp cover yielding to his rough hands. The smell wafted from the fresh paper – he had only bought this book a few days ago down the street at the bookstore. Kieran always enjoyed the smell of fresh parchment.
His coffee had grown cold by the time his wandering eyes had bothered to look up from the page. Outside the window, the street had grown quite dark, dark enough for the street lamps to have turned on. In the light below the nearest lamp, it had become evident that the first snow had begun to fall softly, slowly, and silently outside of his attention.
Then he saw her. Her auburn hair had been victim to the winter winds and lay on her shoulders unevenly, glistening with new snow. Her tall boots fell above her knees, her jacket cinched just below her waist line. She smiled and looked at the lantern overhead, laughing, admiring. The lines around her eyes creased as she playfully pouted and straightened her scarf, slanted in the cold. She pointed to the door of the café as she approached with her friends.
She entered and he continued to watch as she striped her gloved fingers, exposing each finger with remarkable delicacy. The light did her a terrible favour and made her already notable features more prominent. Her previously dainty expression held a note of subtle seduction that Kieran doubted that she knew she possessed.
She stood in front of the counter waiting to order. “Grab me a seat?” she asked her friend as they slipped into the back room. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled pleadingly at the others.
“But of course, my lady Briardale”, the other replied mockingly with an equal smile.
Kieran caught himself before she turned her head further, before she could catch him eyeing her. He quickly flipped the page of his book to look occupied, and she shifted her glance. He raised his eyes, peeking through his lashes at her once more.
*Briardale.
Today seemed to be no different. He entered the Red Brick Café, moving through the stiff door. He ordered his usual black coffee and placed his things on the table nearest to the window.
His load was slightly heavier today, large textbooks and journals weighing him down. Though he was only sixteen, he had already begun showing interest in studies far surpassing the average teenage parameters of notice. Before him lay the studies of Nietzsche and Marx, as well as several sheets of paper with his own scrawled handwriting, denoting his findings. Kieran had surpassed the term “average” years ago, even if his father had failed to notice it.
“Maybe if you would stop asking so many questions and started doing the crap they asked you to in school, you would pass your **** classes” he could recall his father saying to him after the last term.
Even still, he had not been the type to feel the need to please others. Kieran had always been focused on satisfying himself, his questions and his hunger for knowledge. He stopped at nothing to satisfy these basic needs.
“Medium Black?” the woman had called after preparing his coffee. He retrieved the cup, mismatched and morphed, as they all were in this store. It was part of what he had liked most about it – the mugs served in late summer with the Christmas patterns, the coarse orange glasses that stood on the same shelf. None of the dish wear matched, and he thought this was exactly what gave the shop its character.
He walked to the single leather couch pulled in front of the table overlooking the window. Through said window laid a perfect view of the people walking past on Adelaide Street. Often times, he had sat in this spot for hours simply watching people milling through the lives they wish they did not live, wondering all along whether they would decide to change.
He opened his new copy of The Introduction to Karl Marx, the crisp cover yielding to his rough hands. The smell wafted from the fresh paper – he had only bought this book a few days ago down the street at the bookstore. Kieran always enjoyed the smell of fresh parchment.
His coffee had grown cold by the time his wandering eyes had bothered to look up from the page. Outside the window, the street had grown quite dark, dark enough for the street lamps to have turned on. In the light below the nearest lamp, it had become evident that the first snow had begun to fall softly, slowly, and silently outside of his attention.
Then he saw her. Her auburn hair had been victim to the winter winds and lay on her shoulders unevenly, glistening with new snow. Her tall boots fell above her knees, her jacket cinched just below her waist line. She smiled and looked at the lantern overhead, laughing, admiring. The lines around her eyes creased as she playfully pouted and straightened her scarf, slanted in the cold. She pointed to the door of the café as she approached with her friends.
She entered and he continued to watch as she striped her gloved fingers, exposing each finger with remarkable delicacy. The light did her a terrible favour and made her already notable features more prominent. Her previously dainty expression held a note of subtle seduction that Kieran doubted that she knew she possessed.
She stood in front of the counter waiting to order. “Grab me a seat?” she asked her friend as they slipped into the back room. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled pleadingly at the others.
“But of course, my lady Briardale”, the other replied mockingly with an equal smile.
Kieran caught himself before she turned her head further, before she could catch him eyeing her. He quickly flipped the page of his book to look occupied, and she shifted her glance. He raised his eyes, peeking through his lashes at her once more.
*Briardale.
