Iris

     Love is not breaking out into an argument in the middle of a busy coffee shop, I think to myself as I watch a young couple bicker. It’s rude to stare, I know, but damn. It’s hard not to when they are louder than the other ongoing  conversations.

    Shouldn’t relationships be happy and loving and free of arguments? Or is that only in the cheap romance novels I find at book sales?

    “It’s rude to stare, you know.” says K from the table diagonal from me. How long has he been watching me watch them, I ask myself as I acknowledge him. His expression is amused.

    “Like I said before, I enjoy the drama.” K glances over to the couple and shakes his head. He mutters something under his breath. I bite my lip to keep me from shouting at the couple to shut up and sit or leave the shop all together. Would that be too insensitive? I mean, it’s not like I know what the two are arguing about in the first place.

    One of the workers walks over to their table and begins speaking to them. He asks them to calm down or they will be forced to leave the shop. The girl rolls her eyes but complies and closes . The boy glares at the employee before storming out, making everyone in the shop to turn and stare. I’m obviously not the only rude one.

   “Did this place just get a little colder?” K asks me, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s shivering.

    “It definitely became less stuffy.” I scrunch up my nose. The oxygen supply in the shop has become cleaner and less polluted once the malicious words are removed.

    K sips his coffee and goes back to scrolling through his cellphone. This is how our interactions have been for the last few weeks. Each encounter only lasts a minute or two, most of the time starting with an astute comment from him, and a one word retort from me. We sip on our drinks, he scrolls through his cellphone, I write in my journal (occasionally fall asleep) and that’s it.

   Last week after his departure, the wife of the shop owner approached me. I was deep in writer’s land when she began prodding me with questions about K.

   “I don’t know anything about him other than he likes to drink coffee and tease me about my sleeping habits.” I answered when she asked me if I knew anything about that “handsome” young man. She nudged my shoulder when she called him handsome expecting a gushy reaction I am sure, but I simply agreed.

   “He is handsome.” I said, and I was telling the truth. I won’t deny that the man has good looks, but good looks are fleeting, and that’s not going to get me to pursue him.

  “He told us to fix the wobbly chair, you know,” She continued.

  “Did he now?” I feign interest with wide eyes to indulge her.

   “He did!” She exclaims, grabbing my hand, “He said that we wouldn’t want another mishap like the one earlier with the klutzy girl. He was talking about you!”

   “With the use of my deductive reasoning, I concluded that.” I laugh.

    The shop owner’s wife eventually left to tend to business. After a little while, I left. All the way home I thought of K calling me a klutzy girl. Even as I sit here, at my coffee table, I think of that. Even arriving today, the shop owner’s wife kept giving me a sideways glance before looking over at him. I am not sure what scenario was playing out in her head, but I imagine that this young man and I are already married with children in her fantasy world.

   So I indulge her a bit. She glances at me again and I wink. I grab my things and scoot in my chair. K is immersed in whatever he is reading on his phone when I approach.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” I ask.

  “Sure?” He replies. If this were a cartoon, a big question mark would appear over his head.  I sit down and open my journal to the page I was working on.

  “You’re not going to knock over my coffee are you? I am planning on enjoying the rest.” He says with a raised eyebrow.

   “Knocking things over isn’t on my agenda for the day. Check back with me next week. I may be able to accommodate.”

   K smiles and goes back to looking at his phone. I pull my pen from behind my ear and begin to write. I am working on my first novel. It would probably be a lot more beneficial if I planned it out first, but planning has never worked out for me before, so why would it now? Ideas are hard to come by, but I always seem to have a surge when I come to this coffee shop. Even when I am restless and exhausted.

  “What are you writing?” K asks.

  “A story.” I reply without looking up.

  “About?”

  “Death.” I deadpan, finally looking up. K’s eyes are as wide and as white as the full moon.

  “That’s interesting?”

  I smile at him and explain that I was only joking. “Although it could lead to death.” I explain, “But I don’t imagine it will. I don’t like unhappy endings.”

  “Who says death has to be an unhappy ending?” He asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

  “Death tends to be a generally unhappy situation.” I reason.

  “Very true.” He offers, “But it depends on the character. Is it your main character’s lover, family member, friend? Is it your main character him or herself? If so, then yes it is an unhappy ending for said character.” K explains.

  “So what  type of situation would cause death to be read as a happy ending?” I ask, genuinely intrigued by his proposal. Death, for me, has always been cut and dry. It’s unhappy, it’s sad, it’s devastating. Never once have I thought of it to be something happy for lack of a better word.

  “Is it concerning the death of someone who wronged your main character? Could the death be of someone who abused your main character or someone they knew? Perhaps your main character wants to die. Perhaps your main character is obsessed with death and wants nothing more than to die. That proposes a happy ending because the character will have gotten what he or she desired most.”

  I tap my pin to my journal. K’s face is serious as he examines me. I purse my lips and read over what I had just written. It had absolutely nothing to do with death, and even if it did, it would not be from the perspective of it being happy.

  “Touche.” I concede before asking him to repeat what he just said for future reference.