Beyond Grace [ON INDEFINITE HOLD]

Beyond Grace: 9

Coffee at the Meltingpot? 5 min?

Love you

– Mariah

Some people believed in love at first sight. Cash had always been the cynic to the debate; the morose scoff at the impetuous declarations of love before even truly knowing their lover. The romantics — Keira particularly, would just sigh and roll their eyes at what was deemed an arctic heart.

And it wasn't that Cash thought love didn't exist. But it was more so a wanton virtue; a razor diamond gem encrusted within a sticky cling-wrap society. It had to be earned — meticulously fostered and blossomed into a fervent romance. People nowadays didn't appreciate true love. “I love you” had to be used more candidly than a greedy child's “pleases” and “thank you’s”.

Ten months after meeting Melody, Cash had declared unadulterated love in the form of an attempted romantic dinner. The candles never lit, and a warbling fire alarm signified a well burnt dinner, but the words had slipped out — proud, true, and intrinsically right. And Melody had agreed.

So, of course, the diminutive “love you” footnote seemed to flip the sentence into a fourth dimension. Cash's mouth dried out, clammy hands nervously calm. The notion of love was infinitive, yet Mariah's flippancy on the word nearly drove him up a wall in angst.

Surely a relationship as precipitous and sultry as the romance with Mariah would require equal time. The mere word 'relationship' eventuated to confusion — for the two of them were still undefined by little more than wanderlust kisses and torpid caresses.

Yet, the idea of a girlfriend loomed precariously like a hangman's noose. Somehow, love at first sight seemed to perpetuate to an even more ridiculous notion.

Cash sighed, frowned and meticulously rewrote a response.

Ok. See you in 5, he messaged, fingers toying with the 'send' button.

It felt as if a weight had dropped within the deepest abyss of his stomach. The words – if it was possible he would retract statement the instant the message left the glossy interface. Nervousness overtook tense hands, seeking to claw back a mere whisper of the text. He stood up, sat down, stood up again, and then grabbed a few dollars. Five minutes didn’t leave much lenience.

Cash dragged on a slack grey jumper, before rushing down the staircase. Right foot, and then left foot – it was curious how simple acts seemed to become irrelevant in the haste. As he flung himself out of the door and raced down the shop-lined promenade, a myriad of different and better responses permeated his thoughts. Inadvertently unchangeable, howbeit.

Cash pushed open the cafe door, a little peal of a bell marking any movement. The pungent scent of coffee and the pulse of conversation emanated from the crowded room. Amalgamations of low-key lighting with the soft broken light of late morn outlined her wavy brown hair, with a loose jersey masking the ever-enticing figure and stretch tights outlining the curvatures of each leg.

Cash squeezed through the worn brown chairs, before snaking an arm around Mariah’s waist. She froze, and then relaxed in recognition. Leaning back, Mariah entwined their fingertips together, head tilting slightly back to lock eyes with his.

The café had changed considerably since Cash had last entered through the rustic glass panelled doors. Melancholy music hummed beneath the ambience of incense and the ring of wind chimes. Towards the back stood a recent addition – an aged bookshelf accumulated yellowing books and upon mismatched dark walnut three-legged stools sat throngs of readers sipping on tea and coffee.

Scattered sheets from another man’s newspaper caught Cash’s eye. A wide coloured photograph dictated images of Keira and himself squatting over the dead man’s body, the curiosity of the onlookers reflecting in the camera's flash. He frowned – there were photographers? The tall, muscled physique of a dark man was illuminated by the red and blue police lights, demanding white eyes in bright contrast against dark brown skin as both arms were secured behind his back. Mariah’s brother. Reading the headline made it near impossible not to cringe in guilt; “Murder in the Suburbs – Is Our Police Force Up To Scratch?”