Last Trip To LJs
Peter Triezenberg
Down the road, across the street, and to the left if you walked from the college, they opened the familiar doors and were immediately struck by the pleasant scents of warm coffee and melted chocolate. Sitting down, the girl looked at her shaking hands, while the boy quickly removed a few crumpled bills and walked to the counter. When he returned and sat down, his movements were brisk, to the point. “Well?” he demanded. The girl looked up, and she could barely see him through the liquid mirrors forming in her eyes. “Well?” The voice grew harsher, mocking her from several hundred feet away, on the other side of the table. “Explain.” She winced, withdrawing her shaking hands to her bruised midsection, feeling lingering pain from her last attempt to explain her wrongdoings. The drink arrived, but it sat uneaten, except for when the boy lazily tipped the spoon through it, mixing swirls of snowy cream and dirty chocolate as the girl desperately tried to tell him why she had done what she did, and trying to understand herself. He looked up, fire burning where she saw water. Slowly, coldly, every word that came from his mouth was an attack, a frozen needle gouging a beating pincushion in her chest. His voice rose, his rage evident, all she could do was look at the drops of perspiration on the table, ashamed and frightened.
But when they left, there was no anger, no shouting, and no tears. There was only wonder, and silence.
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