Truthful Fiction Chapter 1

“It was a normal day in the coffee house,” typed Patrick.

Patrick Fitzwit, precisely, and he was an unimaginative writer indeed: because there he sat with his laptop, drinking a three-dollar cup of sugar from Styrofoam in a perfectly normal coffee shop. The barrista, fresh out of college, stood there stupefied, as he could not operate a single piece of brewing hardware. Threatening steam arose from the espresso machine and the only thing that cut through the screaming of the milk and the choking smell of burnt coffee was the manager’s unquenchable ire. And at exactly 7:30 in the morning, the bell at the door of Colombia’s Chaos, the name of said coffee shop, predictably rang; signaling the common arrival of a red haired businesswoman with short cut boots, striding confidently into line with a slightly intrusive “unstoppable” attitude.

“It was cold outside,” typed our writer.

Indeed, it was cold outside. And that woman third in line had hair like a warm flame, and unlike all of the other patrons drawn to it like moths, Patrick remained indifferent. No, Patrick Fitzwit was too engrossed in his nigh autobiographical work of fiction that might as well have been called The Life of Patrick Fitzwit to notice that the red haired beauty’s elegant form already made its way to his table, burning with passion, and sat straight across from him!

There were tables and seats all around them, and this go-getter vixen with curled shoulder length red hair decided to sit across from Fitzwitless. Despite the screaming steam and the screaming manager and the mumbling college stoner, there was a silence. The dull typing of keys laboring towards duller prose only occasionally broke that silence. And for a while, this delightful red head Anne Mannel, was content to observe. It could only be love.

She loved watching his fingers flit across the keyboard and she imagined, as she had imagined many times before on normal days, those nimble hands touching her, anywhere they pleased, in the dark and erotic recesses of her mind. Anne loved how Patrick’s broad brow would furl in falsely profound contemplation, his temples tenser than she was in many places. And she loved how he ran his hands through his burnt blonde hair, thoughtlessly scratching his head for ideas. Uncommon as it may sound, this was in fact a normal day for both of them. It was his queer charm and undying devotion to his work that has kept Ms. Mannel watching for over a month, hoping that one day he would turn the same devotion to her. A fearless and confident negotiator at the office, this slender woman was too abashed to ever speak to this silent sentinel. But today, that stoner put too much sugar in her three-dollar coffee, and with greater confidence than at work, the reckless combination of sugar and caffeine awoke something wild within her.

“Hi…um” she meekly began. “So…you’re still working on book of yours―I always see you working on it”

“I always notice you watching me,” he retorted rather uncouthly.

This caught our hormonally emboldened tigress off guard, but she remained persistent, “Wh—What’s the name of your book?”

Patrick leaned back and gazed thoughtfully, but as he did so, he got his first good look at her. He noticed her delicate hands clasped about her coffee and her endearing smile warmly entreating him to speak as the light bounced off her curls, playing games with his mind’s eye; and the title could not escape his lips.

“It’s called,” he paused as a flash of rare genius hit him.

“Yes?” rejoined Anne.

“It’s called,” he began once more, reaching across the table with an open hand, “The Beautiful People in Simple Places”

Patrick showed some hidden intelligence yet, or was it passion, or both. His flirtatious gambit succeeded as far as he could tell from the quiet sigh that escaped Ms. Mannel.

“You’re very sweet once you warm up to others,” Anne replied.

“As far as warmth goes, I should thank your attractive hair,” returned Patrick.

Of course, Patrick found it more than attractive. It was intoxicating. He was stricken by how her hair complemented her facial features: her red cheeks, her calm blue eyes, and her thinly pursed lips. The smell of Anne’s hair overcame the burnt coffee and pervaded his nostrils and hung there, threatening to make him wild with every waft that sweetly wove its way towards him through the air. But he could not tell her, because they did not even know each other’s names.

“I’m so sorry ma’am” readying to change that unfortunate fact. “But I’ve never caught your name, I am Patrick Fitzwit…” he paused, doubtful that it would impress her. “Freelance writer.”

“Oh,” Anne’s eyes perked up slightly shocked that she neglected that formality, and subconsciously, she wondered to herself, in her enamored state, why the names mattered.

“I am Ms. Anne Mannel,” she emphasized, to Patrick’s delight. “I work in the negotiations department for Fantasti Corp.”

She unknowingly placed her hand in Patrick’s. Startled, they both drew back. It was clear that dating had not been a normal part of their lives for some time. But then, they slowly came back together, giving each other’s hand a tender squeeze.

“I…um,” stumbled Patrick, feeling her pulse quickened his. “Are you freefordinnersometime?”

Anne gave him a confused look, trying to decode Pat’s nerve based elision; Pat thought it was all over.

“Of course,” she shocked him. “How about—Oh God! Look, I’m really sorry, I have to go, callmelater—” She quickly got up, already half way out the door striding panicked.

“Wait!” Patrick yelled alarmed, “You didn’t give me you’re…” he was panicking, she was already at the door, “Digits.”

Digits, that was all he could get out in his nervous state, and who could blame him? Her hand just at the door, a wry smile grew on Anne’s face and she regained some composure, she was not that late after all. She turned on her short cut boots, and walked back to Patrick with a sneaky grin on her face. All of the other patrons were consumed in their endeavors and Anne slid up to Patrick. She took a business card from her purse, rubbed against his baffled chest, and slid her hand down his pants. Anne dropped the card and let it find a home on the inside of Patrick’s trousers as her now free and infiltrating hand cupped his piece. Her fingers ran seductively, some rubbing, some grabbing, and as time stood still, more and more of Pat’s second self became available for the exploring as her palm threw itself into the fray pushing it against his stomach, running up the main vein as her fingers moved on to manipulating his balls like a pair of die in a game of chance. She whispered the number softly under her breath, but Patrick could not hear her. It was a long time since they had dated, she was a little too forward, and he was too reserved.

Satisfied, Anne disengaged leaving Pat’s best friend begging for more as she made her way to the door. Patrick watched her through the window as her shapely legs carried her down the street. With a well-timed toss of her hair, Anne shook off any stigma, but kept Pat’s eyes locked and captivated, as he felt swept away by a torrent of rich color. He then recovered himself, like a swimmer striving ashore, and quietly tried to conceal the throbbing bulge in his pants as he hobbled back to his laptop. He then sat down and deleted everything he wrote that day.

To be amorously continued.