Coffee

I looked at him across the hot-chocolate brown mahogany tables at the coffee shop. The table was a dark wash, the different textures of the colors smoothly blending together like an art canvas. It was chipped at the edge, and the diagonal cut had revealed an edge of flaxy brown table. It seemed almost fitting at the moment, how the beautiful exterior was simply present to cover up what was ugly and broken. The air smelled warm, and distinctly bitter, like someone had recently dumped an espresso on the floor and left it there to coat the ground in a thin layer of black coffee grounds.

The sun was streaming behind him, his brown hair soaking up the golden rays, and he seemed to gleam as he bared his teeth to me. He didn’t have blaringly white fangs coming out of his plush lips, but instead owned slightly yellowed down molars that stood in a perfect straight row. His black hair curled at the top, in a messy and uncontrolled way that made the edges of his curls more susceptible to the heat, and they were precariously placed fritzed and frenzied. His lips were almost constantly chapped, the lower bite having a thin-flakiness level that seemed to stretch when he smiled.

It was his imperfections that made him so dream-like.

His jagged scar that ran through his left eyebrow, the one that made the brow stand a little bit higher, making him look cockier, more of a young child running through the street with an impish grin. The constant head tilt - like you were the prey and he was sizing you up, determining if you worthy enough to be looked at. The glint in his brown eyes, the brown that encapsulated the night sky and my morning coffee and the perfect chocolate mousse cake that stood in the display cases by the cashier.

It was his world, and I was simply living in it.

I realize now, too late, too far gone, that it was all game. For him to have fun, to clutch and grasp at a heart that was beneath his, one that he could step on and the pieces would never touch his shoes. He was so beautiful to me at the time, so soft and loving, his arms warm and supple for me to come home to after a long day. I ached for his love, for his lust, for everything that stood under the surfaces of his black sweaters and brown skin. I wanted to crawl into him and find a home, unzip the many layers to his heart, and curl myself under the covers.

But the blankets were too thick to travel, and the jagged fabric left long cuts in my soft skin. The road grew treacherous to his heart, and no longer was the game to win his heart over a simple game – it was the hunger games, one where brutality and tragedy would lead you to win.

In the end, I had to kill myself to end as the richest, to gain his prize.

A heart that no longer sat steady in my fingertips.