ALL BOOK COVERS ARE HYPERLINKED - CLICK THEM
SHORT STORY
The Awakening by Daniel Jackson
I
A young man fantasizes about the perfect image of the woman he wants to be involved with.
t’s strange. Her hair seems to be glowing today as if it’s bathing in the sun. But as I look around, I see that these windows are painted with raindrops. Her brunette tresses are aggressively drawn back into a highly tensioned ponytail. Usually, they’re down, dangling over the left side of her face, acting as her own stage curtain. Something to hide behind while she pokes her head out through the cracks, watching the crowd as they wait for her. Raising the anticipation. Holding the power backstage to decide whether the show will go on. But finally, the wait has ended. The curtain has risen, and she’s emerged. Ready to take center stage and give the audience a bow. I imagine myself standing from my seat, clapping hard, and throwing flowers at her feet as her hair shines in the spotlight. However, this production does not take place on the creaky floorboards of a theater stage. It’s set in the distant lands of the booth at the other end of this café. And I’m the only audience member, scribbling away in my notebook like a theater critic. In this current act, she’s fiercely focused on her laptop, leaning so far forward as she types that I worry she might just fall into her screen. Every few minutes, she pauses. Her eyes levitate over her computer and find their way to me. My eyes desperately vault themselves away in a valiant effort to pretend that I haven’t been staring. But she knows. She’ll smile, subtly basking in the attention before letting her focus settle back to her work. I’ll close my eyes and listen to the symphonic clacking of
her keyboard. I like to think that she’s writing about me too. I wonder what she would write about. Has she noticed this journal I’ve been writing in, bound in flexible fake leather, with the image of a key etched on the cover? How when I open it, I have to flip through a hundred full pages before reaching the first blank one. Would she notice my clothes? This gray polo, tucked into khakis, separated by a slick black belt. Would she appreciate how well I’ve manicured my blonde beard or how my biceps slightly bulge out the sleeves on this shirt? I think she’s filling her own book with thoughts and observations about me. Just as I’ve done with her. If I searched through the pages of her field notes, what would I find? And how could I ever let her read through mine? Staring at my journal, my mind drifts back to our first encounter. There was me, hovering near the register, waiting to place my order. Her standing in line just behind. The barista sauntering toward me and asking, “What can I get you today?” Leaning in, burdened by my immense secret, the lowly whispered words slid out between the gaps in my teeth, “Large pumpkin spiced latte, please.” The barista, attracting the attention of the entire café, loudly responding with a distinct and impossible not to hear, “What?!” With a father’s sternness so as not to be misunderstood again, the order is repeated through a clenched jaw. “Large. Pumpkin. Spiced. Latte. Please.” The words finally stick their landing as the
Books ‘N Pieces Magazine — JULY 2022 — www.BooksNPieces.com
33
