by J. J. Murray
She moved between Matthew and the door. “Then don’t leave,” she whispered.
Matthew sighed. “I’m not ready.”
Monique slid a hand down his leg. “You looked ready.”
I was wearing baggy jeans. How could she tell? “I should have told you this earlier. My girlfriend left me today.”
Monique blinked. “You have a girlfriend?”
“I had a girlfriend until this morning. At least I think she left me this morning.” That was a lot of food to move, and the microwave is bulky. “We were together for a year.”
Monique’s lower lip drooped. “You poor man.”
How does she know I’m poor? “She got on a plane to the Dominican Republic today.”
Monique frowned. “Oh, so she only left on a plane somewhere.”
“With someone else,” he said. “A man named Carlo.” Monique’s sexy eyebrows became one. “Oh.” She blinked. “Oh. What’d you do wrong?”
“I’m not sure. I either wasn’t hairy enough or I didn’t smell enough like oranges.”
Monique continued to blink.
“Whatever it was,” Matthew said, “she chose him over me, and I went out tonight to try to forget her. I hope you understand.”
Monique pulled the sheet tighter around her chest. “So I was your get-over date?”
Yes. “No, not exactly. I just wanted to have fun tonight, and I thought of you. You’re fun. I had fun tonight.”
She tugged at his hand. “Then let’s go back and finish this fun date.”
“Monique, I have these interior brakes, and they . . . they’re locked up tight right now.” I have even set the emergency brake for the first time in my life. “I don’t want to rush into anything so soon. Do you understand?”
“No.”
I didn’t think she would. “Okay, let me explain it this way. Monique, I’m not that handsome.”
“I think you are,” Monique said.
Because you’re drunk and horny. “Women as beautiful as you rarely look at me for more than a second unless they absolutely have to, and in most relationships I’ve been in, I never had sex on the first date, or even the second. I guess I’m a little old-fashioned.”
Monique leaned forward, rubbing her body against his. “So . . . let’s have some old-fashioned sex.”
There is nothing old-fashioned about this woman. “What I’m saying is . . .” I wish her body didn’t feel so nice! “I don’t want this to be a get-over and get-lost date that ends once I leave your bed. I want to begin something that will last. Don’t you want something that will last for more than one night?”
Monique stepped back.
She is stunned. I have asked her a loaded question, maybe a question no one has ever asked her before. Should I withdraw the question?
“How do you know that we won’t last after tonight?” she asked.
“I don’t know, I mean, how can I know, right? But, seriously Monique, that . . . drawer . . . in there . . .”
Monique squinted. “What about it?”
Whoa. That had some attitude. “It gives me the impression that . . . what I mean to say is . . .” I can’t say that I won’t be the last man in your bed this week or maybe even this evening. “Most of the condoms were missing, Monique, which means you have an extremely active sex life, and, well, I’m not—”
“You calling me a whore?” Monique interrupted.
“No, no, Monique, nothing like that.” Well, maybe something like that. “You have an obviously healthy sexual appetite. I respect that. I am in awe of that. I worship that. Most men would find your preparedness extremely appealing. But I’m the kind of guy who has to ease into a relationship, you know?”
“You think I’m a whore!”
“No. That’s so far from the truth.”
“What, because I was prepared and you weren’t, I’m the whore?” Monique asked.
Her hazel eyes can sure catch fire fast. “I never said you were a whore. I have great respect for you, Monique.”
“For a whore.”
“You’re not a whore.” Why’d I say the word? “I’m just not, how do I say this, as fast as you are. I wasn’t prepared to have sex tonight because I didn’t expect to have sex tonight. I didn’t go on this date expecting to be in your bed. Do you understand?”
“No.”
I didn’t think she would. “I respect you, Monique.”
She’s stunned again. Words are forming on those delicious lips, but I hear no sound.
“I respect you as a person,” Matthew said.
She’s still stunned. Am I speaking English?
“And anyway, Monique, I’m more of a snuggler, a cuddler, you know, the guy you snuggle up with while watching an old movie playing on the TV, one we both have seen a dozen times,” Matthew said. “And we’d be eating popcorn and drinking some hot chocolate and saying all the lines—”
Monique jerked opened the door. “No wonder your girlfriend left you. She was bored to death. Good-bye, Matty.”
Matthew stood on the other side of Monique’s door, wondering whether he should apologize. He also wondered how fast Monique would pick up her cell phone.
He heard a series of beeps.
He heard silence.
He heard, “Hi, yeah, we met at The Cove a few hours ago. What are you doing right now? Yeah? Want to come over? I knew you would . . .”
At least I warmed her up. Sort of. She was awfully good at warming up herself. She really should restock the XL boxes before her next visitor, though.
As the sun rose weakly behind him, Matthew wandered back to Williamsburg in a northwesterly direction, amazed that he hadn’t stayed with Monique. In the old days, he wouldn’t have put on the brakes. In the old days, he would have stayed all night and taken her out to breakfast, brunch, or lunch the next day. In the old days, he could handle being up for twenty-four hours without feeling exhausted.
He yawned several times.
These aren’t the old days anymore.
He turned south off Metropolitan onto Driggs Avenue, following the intoxicating aroma of coffee to a red-brick building housing Smith’s Sweet Treats and Coffee, a coffee shop he hadn’t been to since he was a child. Across the street, a construction site sign boasted: “Coming Soon: La Estrella.”
Ah. La Estrella. The Hispanic Starbucks. Why’d they pick this block where there’s a landmark coffee shop across the street? The leeches.
He read the sign on the door: “Cash only.”
Old school. I like that.
He dug into his pockets and found a crumpled five-dollar bill.
Here’s hoping an old-school coffee shop has old-school prices.
Chapter 3
Though it was only a little after six AM, there were already two people in line. Matthew sneaked to the front and snatched a simple paper menu from the top of the glass case before returning to the back of the line. Smith’s Sweet Treats and Coffee served breakfast, not brunch, offering eggs, waffles, toast, pancakes, and sausage, all at reasonable prices, and all made-to-order. The glass case and counter forming an L on the right side of the shop boasted croissants for less than three bucks, pastries and turnovers in every fruit flavor, cupcakes, bagels, muffins, and cookies with more chips and nuts than dough. As he basked in an agreeable collision of scents and aromas, he read the largest sign on the wall behind the counter:
I AM NOT A BARISTA.
I BREW AND POUR COFFEE.
Only a few kinds of coffee were listed on a dusty chalkboard hanging over the register: Jamaica Mountain Blue, House Blend, and Breakfast Brew. Matthew checked the menu for prices. I can actually afford a large cup and something sweet.
Floor-to-ceiling windows at the front for people-watching, lots of small, square wooden tables and matching chairs, three lights dangling from a wood-beamed ceiling, black and white checkerboard pattern on the floor, five spacious booths covered in brown vinyl, lighted sconces on the walls, mostly black and white pictures of old Williamsburg sp
aced around the shop—this place has class and ambience. And it’s so quiet. No music, indie or otherwise. He smiled at the old-fashioned sugar dispensers on the tables.
“Happy National Freedom Day.”
Matthew looked at the black woman behind the counter. “It’s not Groundhog Day?”
“That’s tomorrow,” she said with a smile. “I’ll bet we get six more weeks of winter.”
She has a nice smile. “I hope not.”
“So do I,” she said. “What can I get for you?”
As Matthew scanned the sweets in the glass case, he also scanned the only worker at Smith’s Sweet Treats and Coffee. She was dark brown and wore no makeup or jewelry; her eyebrows were somewhat bushy, her dark black hair pulled back. “There are so many choices,” he said. Squatting, he looked past a row of turnovers to her nicely proportioned, curvy lower body. He stood and took in her bright smile, large brown eyes, medium-length hair, cute ears, snug jeans, and snugger black sweater under a crisp white apron.
Matthew smiled. “There are too many choices.”
“Late night?”
She has awesome eyes, a mixture of dark and light brown. “Does it show?”
“A little. Your . . .” She patted her hair.
“I’m having a bad hair morning, huh?”
She smiled.
He squinted at the chalkboard. “What’s in your house blend?”
“It’s a secret family recipe.”
Matthew leaned on the counter. “I won’t tell.”
The woman stepped closer and whispered, “Brazilian, Colombian, and Sumatran dark coffees with a hint of cinnamon and some other special ingredients.”
She’s has just described herself. Try not to stare too long at her cinnamon lips. How does the brown skin around her lips blend so perfectly into cinnamon? And all of it is set off strikingly by bright white teeth. Beautiful.
“Does that sound good?” she asked.
And it looks good. I mean, she looks good. Say something. “Yes.”
“Large?”
“Yes, I will need a large,” Matthew said.
“I hope you don’t mind waiting,” she said, “I’ll call you when it’s ready. I brew the house blend longer, so it’s not quite ready to serve yet. Another five minutes or so. Are you in a hurry?”
“No.” He sniffed the air. “What else do I smell?”
“Blueberry and cherry pastries,” she said. “They’ll be out in about seven minutes. You interested?”
In your beautiful eyes? Yes. In the pastries? Yes. “I will wait.” “Thought you might.”
Matthew wandered to the front and noticed a flyer taped to the window advertising a block party tonight near King Park in Queens. Why would anyone throw a block party in February? Okay, it’s National Freedom Day, but really. Hmm. No one will know me in Queens, however. It might be fun to be incognito on a Saturday night. If I don’t freeze my ass off. I’d have to dress—
“Coffee’s ready.”
He returned to the counter.
“How do you take it?” she asked.
“With lots of caffeine.”
She smiled. “There’s plenty of that. No cream, no sugar?” I just left her. Monique was all cream and too much sugar. “Give it to me straight.”
“Okay,” the woman said, “you need to shave, take a bath, and do something about your hair.”
Matthew laughed. She’s sharp. “I do, don’t I? I’ll move farther away.”
“It’s all right. Which pastry do you want?”
Such a sweet voice. She could sell me anything. “One of each.” “Couldn’t decide, huh?”
Maybe I like to keep my options open. “I like variety.” He pulled out the five, smoothing it out. “What do I owe you?”
“Four-fifty. Tax is included.”
A large cup of coffee and two pastries for less than five bucks? In Brooklyn? No, in New York City? Maybe she’s hooking me up. He handed the five to her. “Keep the change.”
She plunked two quarters into a jar marked “Angela’s IRA.”
Her name is Angela. “Thank you, Angela,” he said.
She poured and placed the cup on the counter. “You’re welcome, um . . .”
“Matthew.”
“Matthew.” A buzzer sounded from somewhere in the back. “The pastries are ready. If you have a seat, I’ll bring them out to you.”
“Thanks.”
Matthew collected his coffee and took a sip. Wow. Real. Rich! He sat in the middle booth, the vinyl whining slightly. A moment later, Angela brought the pastries to him on a small china plate before returning to the counter. Matthew watched her move, her black walking shoes moving swiftly, her legs—
“How are they?” she asked.
Your legs? Sexy in those jeans. “I haven’t taken a bite yet.” “Let me know.”
He took a bite of the cherry pastry. Light, fluffy, sweet. What do people sometimes say? This is bangin’.
“How is it?” Angela asked.
“Angela, this is the first real cup of coffee I have had in years,” Matthew said. “I will be awake until Monday, and these pastries . . . wow. Real blueberries and real cherries.”
“They’re the only kind I make,” Angela said. “You could take some to go.”
And I wish I could. I blew close to seventy-five bucks on Monique last night. “Maybe next time.”
She wiped the counter with a white towel. “You promise?”
That woman has the soft sell down pat. How could I refuse her kind face, sexy eyes, bright smile, and sweet voice? “Yes. Thank you.”
He wolfed down the pastries and sucked down the coffee in less than five minutes.
“You want a refill to go?” she asked.
I can’t tell her that I’m broke. “One cup of this coffee will last me all day.”
“Okay,” she said. “Don’t be a stranger, now.”
“I won’t.” He slid out of the booth. “Are you open tomorrow?”
“Every day of the week from six in the morning to eight at night.”
“I may see you soon.” He nodded. “Good-bye, Angela.”
“Good-bye, Matthew.”
Fortified by sugar and caffeine, Matthew walked a few blocks to Bedford Avenue to see his landlord about the rent. As he entered the cramped office, Carly the receptionist barely looked up from a copy of the New York Post.
“I’m a little late with my—”
Carly rolled her eyes. “See Larry.”
Matthew walked around several desks to an open door and Larry Long lounging behind his desk. “Hey, Larry. Matt McConnell. Over on Havemeyer.”
Larry shuffled a few manila folders, opening one. “You’re not normally late. Tell you what. I’ll waive the late fee if you sign up for another lease.” He spun the folder around. “It will, of course, include a rent increase.”
Matthew scanned the document. Two hundred more bucks a month. Is he crazy? My lease is up in seven weeks, and I can’t afford two grand a month for a one-bedroom. “I’ll pay the late fee, Larry. Nineteen-eighty, right? You still take debit cards, right?” He held out his scuffed debit card.
Larry sighed and took the card. “You’re not going to find a better deal, Mr. McConnell. Unless you want to move to Bushwick.”
I’m avoiding Bushwick for the time being. “I’ll manage.”
Larry left the office and returned a few minutes later with the receipt. “Trust me, Mr. McConnell. For what you’re getting and that location, I’m being reasonable with the increase. You’ll be getting an official notice in the mail next week.”
Matthew took the receipt. “Sure. Great.”
He spent the rest of National Freedom Day restocking and cleaning his apartment. He hit an ATM to get cash to buy cheap towels, cheaper bedding, and the cheapest microwave he could find at C & H Appliances over on 4th Street. He replenished his condiments and bought some actual food at Melo’s. He carefully crammed the soiled bedding into garbage bags and put them in a Dumpster.
<
br /> He stood in front of his closet for the longest time. It hadn’t really been his closet since Joy had moved in. Look at all those colors. Joy liked color. I liked her colorful body, the way her knees and elbows were just a little darker than the rest of her smooth, shapely legs and arms, the way her eyes seemed to change color according to her moods, the frisky way she’d wake me every morning. I wish she were back here with—
No. Let’s be rational about this. I don’t wish she were here. She left me. It’s over. Throughout our relationship, I was the rational one. Joy is the irrational woman who wouldn’t speak to me after she had an erotic dream where she “caught” me making love to another woman. “You cheated on me,” she had said. “It was a freaking dream you had, Joy,” I had said. “You still cheated,” she had said, and she had kept her silence for a week.
That still has to be a record for a Honduran woman.
He sighed.
At least I get my closet back.
He bagged Joy’s clothes and shoes. I’d hate to have these sit outside until garbage collection on Monday, and I don’t want them to sit around here either. I really shouldn’t throw them away anyway, so ...
He took them to the Salvation Army Thrift Store on Bedford.
It took him three trips, each trip feeling shorter than the last. The bags themselves even seemed to get lighter.
When the worker at the thrift store asked if he wanted a receipt for tax purposes, Matthew shook his head.
“This is some nice stuff,” she said.
“It’s okay,” Matthew said. “You are doing me a big favor.”
Good-bye, color.
Back at the apartment, he took a long nap.
He didn’t dream of Joy.
He woke in darkness, showered and shaved, put on some jeans, a black sweater, and his bomber jacket. Then he walked to Marcy Avenue and took the J Train to Jamaica Center, counting twenty-three stops. He sat among Italian girls flashing their nails, Latinas shouting into cell phones, Chinese ladies placing their children on seats in dense-pack formation, Hasidic Jews gripping poles, and hipsters swaying even when the train stopped. These are real New Yorkers, Matthew thought. This is the New York everyone should experience.
As he left the platform and walked toward King Park, he heard shouting to the east. He wandered a few blocks to 153 rd Street and saw barricades manned by police and a man screaming, “Stop and frisk has got to go!”
