My Cardboard Balcony

Paying Customer by Belinda Roddie A dozen strangers around me stir sticks into lukewarm brew, the tea too steeped, the sugar too sweet, the coffee too weak, and the entire atmosphere lacking heat. I sit in the corner with a lost boy book, where the crumbs settle against my half-eaten fingernails - neither savory, neither satisfying. A worker confronts me. He asks me if I am to order a cup of potion to calm my nerves. If not, I must soothe myself elsewhere, with softer attitudes and dimmer expectations. "Have you read this book?" I ask, and my voice has a pulse. "There is death, but there is also hope." He ignores the sentiment of a reader. I find a seat outside. The wind is cold, the pavement scorching. Words are absent, the print faded. The ink becomes hard to scour, and I am desperate for strangers.

Her cat brushed against my shoulder and issued an exasperated meow, but I was too busy staring at the screen to pay attention. The accident had been very close to the apartment, and the description of the wrecked car was just like her. I felt two of my fingers slip into my mouth, my teeth scraping at my raw cuticles as I waited for any new update to emerge. But nothing. I prayed it wasn't her.