Michael loved coffee.  He visited the same coffee shop every weekday morning before 7:45 a.m. Not just any coffee shop. “Black” was a hole-in-the-wall establishment, running for over thirty years in the neglected part of town, consistently serving a nameless black brew, known for its crude flavor and unopposed strength. The coffee rivaled military brews and over the years had collected few regular customers.  Those that frequented the shop behaved like veterans, seemingly rushed, never giving the impression that they were enjoying their coffee, or anything in their lives for that matter. The handful of customers appeared and vanished at what seemed to be allotted time intervals, never loitering too long during another’s visit, if one should accidentally impose.

The shop stood between a low-income laundry mat and a hair/nail boutique called “Pretty Girls,” but neither places produced enough odor to overpower the scent of Black’s coffee.  The shop had two front windows that looked out onto the cluttered sidewalk.  Michael always sat in the overstuffed armchair in between these windows, sipping the scalding hot coffee.  He spoke to no one, except Carl, the owner’s son, who took Michael’s order every morning.  Carl worked very hard for his aging father: cleaning, rinsing, and polishing the ancient brewing equipment.  He swept and mopped the wooden floors, replenished the supply of filters and cups and napkins.  There was little else to do.  Black had no bathrooms to clean and the Styrofoam cups made a customer into a passerby, not a visitor.  There was no reason to stay, no chairs at the counter, nowhere to stop and chat with another coffee-drinker.  Just the decrepit armchair sat between the windows, sunlight flooded the floors by 7:30, the counters remained spotless, and only the trashcan located by the door stood as proof of Black’s ghostly customer base.     

Michael had his last cup of coffee today.  He arrived at Black at 7:37 a.m., averaging his usual time.  But upon entering, as his eyes adjusted to the subsequent darkness found inside, Michael immediately noticed her. How could he not?  For well over five years he and Carl had sat in silence together, while Carl tended to chores and Michael sat stoically by the window, the two occasionally joined by another customer, who never dared to break the tranquility of the squeaking ceiling fans, rotating overhead.  Her voice startled Michael; it wasn’t even what she said.  What had she said?  Was it even English?  His gaze fell upon her face, the creaminess around her left eye was interrupted by the purplish tinge of a bruise. A black eye. I can already tell she doesn’t listen.

“Where’s Carl?” he asked, formulating more of a demand for information than a question.

“He’s sick,” she replied.

“Who are you?”

“I’m his niece, Trudy.”

Trudy. What a terrific name for a terrific employee. I’ll bet she’s not even sixteen, what the hell is she doing here? Isn’t it a school day? Don’t kids nowadays have school?   Except for the bruises forming around her eye, Trudy’s face was kind and innocent.  A sloping jaw line with gentle curves, fleshy cheeks, heavy green eyes, a pair of distinct eyebrows and full pink lips with the slightest evidence of swelling, Michael was, nevertheless, struck by her beauty.  His daydreaming was interrupted by Trudy, apparently repeating herself for the third time, asking again, “What can I get you, sir?”

“A large,” he grumbled, reaching around to dig out his wallet.  He leafed out two bills, a five and a one, his form of payment at Black since his first visit.  A two dollar and thirty cent tip, leftover from the subtracted cost of a large Styrofoam cup, everyday for over five years.  He calculated the inflation rates with coffee prices and consumer taxes.  Roughly thirty two ounces of coffee everyday for around two thousand days at a steady price of $3.67: almost seventy five hundred dollars spent on this beverage.  That’s some expensive piss.  Trudy handed Michael the steaming cup, smiled, and tried to hand him his change as he walked toward the armchair, ignoring her extended hand.  He settled himself within the arms of the brown leather and gazed out the window.  He listened to Trudy as she tidied something, crushed some cups, and changed a trash bag.  The cup felt heavy in his hand, the heat itched in his palm.  He took a sip and changed hands.  He sat like this, silently arguing with himself, until he no longer heard Trudy’s movements.  He stood up and discarded the rest of his coffee as he pushed open the front doors.  He quickly glanced over his shoulder and saw Trudy standing at the counter, having not moved the whole time he sat at the windows.

As the door swung shut behind him, Michael was aware that Trudy could still see him through the shop’s windows and door.  He started off down the sidewalk, hands shoved deliberately in his pockets, mouth still hot from the coffee, its sticky flavor still present inside.  He thought of Trudy, allowed himself to think of Trudy.  Michael wondered about her bruised eye and its accompanying perky attitude.  Black eyes come from car crashes, freak accidents. Yeah and fists. Don’t forget fists. Everybody knows that.  As Michael imagined a fist connecting with Trudy’s delicate features he became aware of a hooded figure occupying his personal space.  Michael looked up at the face, a young boy, dark and somber, his fleeting eyes met Michael’s for a brief moment as he passed by.  Michael slowed to a shuffle and turned to watch the boy, considering his destination to be of interest.  I knew it. Four doors down, Michael watched the boy fling open Black’s front door and disappear inside.

Michael’s heart beat fluttered, his pulse quickened, the coffee stirred in his gut.  No way.  He walked back down to the shop, looking around for any other bystanders.  He grabbed ahold of the door’s hooked handle and pulled it open.  As he stepped inside his eyes searched for movement, but Trudy and the boy were nowhere to be found.  Michael slowly walked around the counter towards the back room, an office doubling as a storage space.  He placed his hand on the metal doorknob; he could hear Trudy and the boy arguing, their voices causing the knob to vibrate in Michael’s hand.  When he heard the blow land, he gripped the doorknob tightly, whipping it open, exposing the scene hidden behind its door.

“You best be backin’ on up, boy.” Michael stepped closer inside the room, placing himself between the boy and Trudy’s crumpled figure on the floor.  She whimpered a moan, a name: Eddie.  The boy’s menacing stare met Michael’s shirt front, creeping up his neck, finally resting on his eyes.  Michael didn’t move. 

“This isn’t any of your business old man. Not at all in fact.”

“Well that’s where we differ in opinion, boy.  See this here’s my coffee shop.  I come here every day.  Every day, Eddie. It is Eddie, isn’t it?  That’s a commitment, boy.  And even though I just met her… she was just here today so her, and her black eye being in my coffee shop… That’s my business.”

Eddie’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth to retort but was interrupted.

“And you? Being back here where even I don’t go? Well damn, Eddie.  That’s my business too.”

Michael put one foot forward, closing the space between him and Eddie.

“Try me, son.”

Eddie didn’t move a muscle. Michael leaned closer, almost in the kid’s face.

            “You like to hit girls?  If that’s the case…get out of here. And don’t come back.  Don’t come around her neither.  If you do I’ll know and I’ll take care of it.  It wouldn’t be nothin’ for me to whup a punk’s ass before work one morning. “

            With that Eddie shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, threw Trudy a final glance of disgust, and exited the storage room.  Michael waited until he heard the front door swing shut before helping Trudy off the floor.

            A stifled “thank you” escaped her lips before she began to sob.  Michael didn’t try to console her.  He made one final statement before leaving Black forever:

            “You find me if you ever need anything.  It wouldn’t be nothin’. Nothin’ at all. For me to whup some punk’s ass before work one morning.   It’d go right fine with my coffee.  Sure would.”

With that, he turned and walked out of the supply room, halting at the door, allowing the sunshine to spread over his face, blinding him momentarily.  He breathed in the scent of the shop, turned on his heel, and left.