five; harris

(better late than never, and better never than dead)
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i’d brought their coffee out with a smile on my lips that plagued my day. there were tables full of people, of mothers gossiping, of men in suits and women with their minds shuffling papers they knew they had to write. there were misfits and lovers and friends with awkward half-hearted waves of greeting. and i was standing with an off-white apron tied around my hearty waist, balancing as many double-shot-skim-milk-extra-hot-lattes as i could in my over encumbered arms. i whittled my day away, watching eyes glaze over me, grunting appreciation with my hard work, growing ever more anxious and annoyed with every second the clock ticked.

it had taken me a moment, then, to realize when he walked in. his hair was a tousled blonde mess, and he rubbed his gloved hands together, as he tried to shake the cold out of his skin – welcoming the warmth of our overfilled, hideaway coffee house. his eyes had scanned the room, subtly – almost invisibly, until he located me, stacking shelves with a new delivery of coffee beans.

hey his voice was casual. he didn’t mean to bump into me, it was coincidence really, he probably had never picked up on the fact that i was here every tuesday between nine and ten.

oh hey harris, i had replied.

we talked in small sentences of kind words and appreciation while i finished my job. we bumbled and mumbled while i made his large hazelnut cappuccino – politely avoiding the sparks that feasted between our silhouettes.

would you, maybe, when you finish one day, maybe, come back to my house, he stumbled, i’ve got some books i’m pretty sure you’d be very interested in.

and i was sure he did. we’d spoken every few days for months now, a very bleak green light, shimmering at the end of my dock.

i’d agreed, of course. i’m sure that’s what i had been waiting for – isn’t that always the way, i would never have admitted it, but something about his nonchalance and love of greek poetry really spoke to my inner clockwork.

we giggled as we left the coffee shop a few hours later. pulling our coats over our small frames, forever shrunken by the large city around us. we were chatting with ease, flying through conversation with brief moments of sullen spurs as our hands bumped in our wandering gait. and finally we found a front door, painted blue, tucked between a chinese restaurant and a seven-eleven.

we walked in, and climbed over a half-built model train set, and a bootleg copy of anchor man and finally reached his lounge-room. he lived alone, in a single bedroom, very small unit. very small. small enough to see every nook and every cranny, and to see every photo that was plastered to the walls of his house, like an open investigation of a crime scene. i spotted myself between a young man with a tattoo of a tiger on his arm, and a middle-aged woman, driving a van. i thought very clearly well this is odd – as he pulled a chloroform rag across my face.