CoffeeBeanShop

Check, Please - A Love Story

by John Kraft (bio at end of story)

For some reason, the only thought that is going through my head is "Oh man, three cups of coffee. I am gonna pay for this, big time." Why this thought instead of the more important, "My God, "I think I'm falling in love with this woman?"

We're lingering over our after-dinner coffee. Most dates rarely order dessert. One left during the salad. But who cares? I'm on my third cup of coffee and I'm in love!

She's telling me something about her job. Her voice has that low, dusty quality. It's a bit like Lauren Bacall without the cigarettes.

Oh, she laughed. Was it something I said? No. She's doing an impression of her Boss. Yes, I can see the breadstick as his cigar. Thank God, she's funny. That's important. Everything I've read about relationships says that a sense of humor is vital.

I have a sense of humor. I laugh. I think Sex and The City is funny.

I love the way she holds her cup. She uses both hands and loops her pinky through the handle. It's very confident looking. I hold mine in the traditional, masculine way: one hand, always making sure the handle faces away from me. I got that wrong once on a date. I spilled coffee all over my new white on white shirt with contrasting red power tie. Poked myself in the eye too. My date was very understanding about it all. We never went about again, but who cares? I'm in love with this wonderful, funny, and confident woman who is drinking her third cup of coffee with me.

Her hair is perfect. A lovely honey blonde color. My guess is L'Oreal 'Harvest Wheat.' A wise choice I think. It complements her skin tone. She looks a bit like Meg Ryan, but not so perky, yet, personally speaking, I sense her as potentially violent.

She has her hair styled just the way I like it. How did she know? It's up, the way Katie Couric wears it when she's interviewing a Prime Minister and doesn't want to look like an aging Weather Bunny from Cleveland. It looks serious but still says to me "I'm fun, yet I can do my own taxes." It makes her look so Major Media Outlet.

She's telling me that she has digital cable TV instead of a satellite dish. Could this get any better? I know the codes. She's really telling me that she enjoys high quality in-home entertainment, but she should not be considered a "techie" and that she would defer to me in electronic and mechanical matters. She cares that I am a Man!

You can see why I love her. She is unlike that woman I met through the "Personals" ad in Redbook. She's not a "Lesbitarian" on the rebound into freeform dating and having sex while watching Bob Vila reruns. I do not fear her.

She is (can there be a clearer signal?) reaching over and picking a small piece of breadstick shrapnel off of my lapel. I'm so glad I chose to wear the jacket instead of my imported Icelandic sweater. Without lapels this moment might never have happened.

I'm nodding in agreement to something she's said. I don't know what it is, but it doesn't matter. It could be anything. I'm in love! Do I want to live in the country? "Yes," I'd nod. If we have twins should we name them after ourselves? "Of course," I'd say.

She is dressed impeccably. I'm sure her suit is a "label." If it were warmer I could help her off with her coat and take a peek. The shoulder pads are just enough to accent the fact of her head, yet, not so much as to be "Designing Women."

And her head! We've all been on dates where, even before the waitperson has introduced him or her self, you notice that your companion's head is wrong. Not "unattractive" or you would never have asked her out, just not what you' d hoped for in a head. But her head is perfect! It is balanced and in keeping with the whole picture. It is symmetrical, a lot like Annie Lennox. It has an almost musical quality. It not so much sings to me as hums. There are just too many words in there.

She is telling me something. It is sad. I can see a shadow in her eyes. There is even a small tear forming in her left eye. My left, not hers. She takes the corner of her napkin and dabs at it. She leaves a breadstick crumb on her cheek. I am sensitive. I reach out and pick it off her cheek. A tender touch is so important.

Her eyes are brightening. The sad story must be over. I'm glad. I don't like sad stories. They make for good date movies but they tend to make me blubber. Most women don't like that. Those that do like it usually have deep closets with stainless steel accessories.

Yes, her eyes are twinkling now. Everything she thinks and feels, I can see in her eyes. I can see her contacts. The eyes are known as the windows to the soul. I read that in a small book that I got from my Secret Santa last year.

I love this woman. We've had three cups of coffee and I've seen her laugh. I've seen her cry. I've seen her be serious and I've seen her twinkle. She has been comfortable enough with me to show me all these sides to her being.

Has she shown me? Or could she not help but show me? Am I seeing the many sides of her or am I seeing the many sides of the many hers? Is there a problem here?

Oh, God! Am I in love with another one?

Please, dear God, don't let this one be like the one who changed voices in bed. Making love to Marcy was a joy. Making love to Joy was not.

She is staring at me. What's going on here? Is she pulling a Sally Field on me right here over coffee?

I never noticed how her brows come so close together when she frowns. They almost touch. Oh, sweet Jesus, she has Ed Asner eyebrows! This cannot be a good sign.

Am I in love with a woman who is a cast of thousands? Look at that frown. It's turning into a scowl. I see a flicker of fear behind her blue contacts. Yes, they are tinted! Yes, I can see into your soul!

Sure, go ahead to the Ladies Room. See if I care. But, when you come back, I may not be here, Sister. I am not about to be roped in by another woman who feels the need to pick me apart. I knew you were inspecting my lapel when you picked off that crumb.

There she goes toward the loo. Look at her. She doesn't walk she trundles. Are you in a hurry to get there before one of your other personalities surface and start to eat food off other people's plates?

I can't deal with this again. I've downed three cups of coffee and I'm gonna be up all night. Who am I kidding? I won't be able to sleep anyway. I'll be up listening to hear her picking at my door locks, trying to get in to ruin my life.

"Waiter! Check, Please!"

Why can't I find anyone normal?

© John Kraft. All Rights Reserved.

Finalist - Check, Please - A Love Story by John Kraft

John is a writer living and working in San Francisco, deep within the belly of the California Beast. John has had a checkered career as a writer. He has written fiction and nonfiction, textbooks, lively patter for cabaret performers, political commentary, how-to books, theatrical productions and, at long last, his first full novel. John also says about himself that he "cleans up real nice and promises to behave himself in public."

Editor's Note: "Check, Please" was chosen for the first round for the following reasons: Interesting title, an opening lead that was relaxed and inviting as well as curious. This story escalates to the end; we were rolling with laughter over the realistic irrationality that plays out in our heads in real life at times. Great ending, excellent writing, correct punctuation, no spelling errors. Interesting inner dialogue, with some great connections. John also did his research. We were impressed with the detail about the hair dye.

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