A story I’m writing on grief and attention
He nearly flattened an old woman as he darted into The Beehive. The young man slipped inside just as the tempered glass door shut, careful not to let it catch his clothing. He was tall with hazy blue eyes half shaded by an intense brow topped with neatly kept hair. The woman glared at the back of his head severely enough to make the sternest Großmutter proud. Sniffing sharply he readjusted his AirPods and looked away.
Inside the cacophony of Main Street dulled. The cafe was teeming, but the scattered conversations were contained and subdued. It would have felt like a library were it not for the flail of bells sounding off each new arrival. The owners took pride in the atmosphere they had worked so hard to cultivate and were always there, polishing some surface or another.
Haphazardly hung posters dotted the walls, announcing shows and sales alike. The paint was chipped but the floors kept clean. A carefully arranged set of black-stained hardwood furniture filled every open inch of space. It was the kind of place that made chaos look stylish. People loved it for that fact and also for the fact that its coffee was actually good. It had become an escape for locals and, increasingly, a spectacle for outsiders, who had themselves become a spectacle for the locals.
The line wrapped from the register around one side of the cafe almost back to the door. When the man stretched his neck, he could count 9 patrons in front of him, and he knew a few more were hidden around the corner. He gnawed on his lip, shifting uncomfortably in place.
“Freakin’ tourists,” a voice said behind him. It belonged to a college student he vaguely recognized as a regular. “Man, there’s more every summer.”
The man pretended not to hear, gaze pointedly buried in his phone. As he shuffled ahead, he listened to the student recite the same lines to the people behind him.
[to be continued]
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