Cat Java

Black Swan

Cat slipped her Corvette into a slot before her favourite coffeehouse as dusk consumed the sky. It had once been a dwelling of some lost-at-sea captain on Balboa Peninsula – a finger of land that formed a harbour against the Pacific waves. The remodeled residence now sported ambient jazz, java smells, and a mysterious lure as if haunted by the old sailor's spirit.

She shook out her long brunette mane, to where it now parted before her, framing a slender sculptured face. She then licked her lips while looking into the rear view mirror, satisfied that no cosmetic touch-ups were needed for her naturally tanned skin.

The coffeehouse door was ajar to the late spring air, welcoming her to cast-off and leave behind any worries of the slowly departing day. She stopped before entering to tie her oversized T-shirt into a tummy knot, exposing a slender waist and her need for a little adventure this night.

The tables were filled with college students and middle-aged beach residents uniformly in torn and washed-out clothes resembling castaways in a "Lost" television series rerun. Tossed among them were a few intellectual types, one in particular catching her attention sitting in a corner by himself, completely engrossed in a pile of folded papers. The chair opposite him on his small table was invitingly open on this crowded night.

This was not the first time she noticed him within her refuge. He had drifted in-and-out over the past months, evidencing a mood not to engage those about him. For some reason he looked strangely familiar, but she couldn't recall from where.

Needing a seat, the gregarious Cat took the occasion to burst his bubble and chat with him, while he focused on a well-thumbed manuscript, flipping and scribbling marginal notes.

Cat opened with "You're a writer!" one-liner, more of a declarative statement than an accost, and he suddenly stopped, looked up, nodded, and went back to work.

A lesser mortal than Cat may have been discouraged by his dismissive action, but not her! Pointing to the vacant chair before him, "You mind?" she asked over the background jazz and conversational din, which was met with a shrug while he continued to work.

"I wonder...?" she mused to herself, as she examined the middle-aged refugee from civilization before her. The wrinkled sun brazed skin and unkept clothes served to conceal a more youthful identity that vaguely came to mind.

"You write about the sea?" she asked.

With that comment he froze in mid-scribble, not looking up at his antagonist. A long breath issued between parted lips.

After the longest moment in time, he then turned and examined Cat. Not the typical head-to-toe male once-over she was accustomed to, but rather this probing eye-to-eye stare, dark sunken orbs below shaggy eyebrows meeting her large java browns.

Cat's thoughts raced to interpret his meaning. Strangely she felt drawn to him, but at the same time repulsed.

He suddenly reached in her direction, but for his coffee. Cat involuntarily jumped. It was a slight start, but not unnoticed, which he acknowledged with a subtle grin, which vanished as soon as it had appeared.

He sipped from his cup continuing with that unnerving stare, never broken as if recounting a children's game: the first one to break eye contact loses.

To recoup and shoo away Cat's obvious feelings of vulnerability, she took in a breath and boldly ventured, "The warmth of this place has drawn you from your ship?"

His pupils dilated for an instant, and Cat knew she had him! Recalling the painting of a clean-cut younger man in uniform over the coffeehouse fireplace, and comparing it to the older, ruffled and shaggy haired apparition before her, there were differences that could have led her astray, but not after that tell-tale reaction.

"Oh my gods!" the words of recognition bounced through Cat's brain without passing her lips as her body withdrew into itself, arms crossing and clasping shoulders in a hug. "He’s… He’s… He’s supposed to be…?" which was cause for her to look away, conceding the staring game to the specter before her.

Past images flashed through her mind as if in silent shadow box sequence. An old story told of a violent storm off the Pacific coast, with all hands lost. She shivered in final recognition. Catching in mid-breath and swallowing, she rejoined his dark probing eyes with hers and said in a hushed whisper…

“It’s you!”

"Of course it's me!" he said with exasperation. "I'm your professor for playwriting. You glanced at me weeks ago, when registering for my fall semester class."

Insect Overlord

The first thought that struck me was "Is this semi-autobiographic?" But of course all good writing is in some way based upon the writer's own experience. I also thought the suspense was built really well, that you managed to create a palpable atmosphere despite the limited length of the story. Good work!