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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2107801-Before-and-After
Rated: E · Short Story · Drama · #2107801
"The little coffee shop was mostly quiet, just the occasional visitor rushing in and out"
         While they waited for her hot chocolate, she traced a self-portrait over her reflection in the fog on the frosted window. She traced in the thin strands of dark hair that trailed across her face with the tooth of a fork, smudged in the gemstone-pattern of her pale eyes with a wrinkled napkin; the icy snow that coated the outside of the glass filled in her pale skin. When she was done, he watched her study herself, both versions at once.

         The little coffee shop was mostly quiet, just the occasional visitor rushing in and out of the snow; but it was warm, and the coffee was good, and he hoped the hot chocolate was too. They’d only talked a little, small talk nonsense, but this one was going a bit better - felt more organic. As she admired herself in the window, he glanced down at himself and worried that his shirt and tie might look a little silly. Her cream-colored top fell across her shoulders like a blanket, cuddled in for warmth. The lady came over with the hot chocolate and set in on the table. She commented on the drawing in the fog, and then she was gone again, and it was just the two of them.

         He said, “You almost feel guilty drinking hot chocolate in a warm room when you look out at weather like that.”

         She smiled briefly, a burst of sunshine across her snow-white face that made her eyes glitter. She said, “No reason to feel bad, the snow doesn’t want to be in here any more than we want to be out there.” She carefully sipped from her mug, leaving a faint ring of peach lipstick behind.

         He chuckled. “Probably not used to weather like this where you’re from, huh?”

         “Nope, definitely not,” she said, “but, don’t get out much since I got here, so.”

         He nodded awkwardly and sipped his coffee. It was her turn to watch him, her eyes darting from his cup to his hand to his eyes.

         Suddenly she leaned forward a bit and said, “What do you want to do after you die?”

         And he replied, “What do you mean?”

         She said, “Oh, you know, like people always say, ‘I’m gonna see the world and go deep-sea diving off every coast and climb the tallest building in the world’ and all that. Everybody’s got plans for after they die - what are yours?”

         “Well I don’t know,” he began slowly, “I-”

         “I think it would be awesome to travel, as cliche as it is. To go all those places and see all those things and not have to worry about a place to sleep or food or anything. Can’t afford a trip like that when you’ve got living problems.” She grinned again, big and fast, and sipped her hot chocolate.

         “I’ve noticed,” he said carefully, “that the people who talk about their grand after-plans are still alive, though.”

         She cocked her head, thinking. “I guess. Does the news ever interview Afters?”

         “They’re not the most photogenic,” he replied, too fast, and then he regretted it. But she grinned again, so quickly you wondered if it was just an illusion. He said, “Have you ever sat in guidance? For a relative, maybe, or…”

         She grimaced a little around the lip of her mug. “I hate that expression, 'guidance'. It’s your friends and stuff, you know? Like they’re not the Grim Reaper.”

         He nodded. “I just wondered if you know anybody who’s already gone.” She shook her head, pulled her arms in close like she’d gotten a chill. He said, “Do you need a refill?”

         “No it’s not empty yet,” she replied, “thank you.” Then she sighed. “I’m sorry I’m kind of tired, long day.”

         “Don’t be sorry,” he replied, “this is low pressure. Just glad for the conversation.”

         She ran her palm across her chest, took a deep breath, and looked back at the fading portrait smudged on the foggy window. “There’s just so much I can’t do now I hope I might be able to do someday, you know?”

         “Absolutely I know,” he replied, “who doesn’t?” He still didn’t know how to say it, to communicate the change that happened in crossing over, the things that were lost - not just hunger and exhaustion, but hope and joy, and love. The way they look and act more or less like the person they’d been, but they don’t feel things like they used to. Someone somewhere knew how to explain that to people, but it wasn’t him. Apparently this one wasn’t going as well as he’d first thought. For the hundredth time since college, he wondered if he was ever going to be any good at this job.

         The swinging double-doors of the little shop opened, and a nurse in cream-colored scrubs poked her head in. Then she came over to the table and apologized, said they needed to check some things before the shift change in a few minutes. So she took the arms of the wheelchair and pulled the girl away from the table.

         As she passed him by, she put a hand on his. “Thank you for the hot chocolate,” she said, and she smiled, and she kept smiling until he smiled back. Then she was wheeled away.

         When they were gone, back through the big swinging doors, the lady behind the register came out again and picked up the lipstick-stained mug. “Thanks again for the table-side service,” he said, “I know you’re not supposed to.”

         “No worries, Dr. Miles,” she replied. “Do you want yours topped off?”

         “I’ll get it myself, thank you - I could use the excuse to stretch my legs.” He stood and picked up his own half-empty cup, glancing out the window. “Looks like the weather’s turning nasty,” he said, and a sleety wind rattled the windowpanes as if in answer.

         “Yeah, it’s a shame,” replied the cashier, “the snow was so lovely.”

© Copyright 2017 J. B. Anthony (j.b.anthony at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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