Disclaimer:
The characters portrayed within are all above the age of 18. There may or may not be similarities to persons living or dead, so what? Any alleged similarities may or may not be coincidental. Again...
In fact, have you ever stopped to think that we may all be slave to some inescapable omnipotent cosmic force of Coincidence not unlike that of Karma or Chaos, and that such legal disclaimers hold no power against it, nor the unseen eldritch abominations of this merciless universe in which whole galaxies are extinguished many times daily?
Well, have you?
No! You only think about yourself...
Any views expressed within are not necessarily the views of the author or of Literotica. Don't quote me on omnipotent cosmic forces, eldritch abominations, or any of that stuff that I just said either. I don't need those problems in my life.
THE LOVE MODEL SESSIONS
1.
Evening fell heavy and foreboding in the northern English university city beneath a thick blanket of rain, a stormy curtain call between mortal acts, at least concerning the pedestrian side of life. Outside the cafe and its windows dripping with diamonds coloured in dirty old streetlight, the pavements and roads were a crude oil slick splashing beneath dashing feet and spraying under hastened wheels of welcomed taxi fares along the tired and glum journey home.
Clocks struck nine and Wednesday's world eased into loneliness, and grateful were those still human and appreciative of breathing spaces, the encroaching shadows of silence, places to relax their elbows. The walls were done closing in for the day, returning to their rightful conscious spaces, to bear the load of the looming universe above.
Within that little city cafe, tucked away in the corner of your typical historical quarter - magnificent Georgian architecture reduced to housing adminitrative offices after centuries' service to empire - a young barista sparingly paid mind to the fascinating looking woman who had sat alone for the past forty-five minutes, and as he loaded up the dishwasher he imagined what she did for a living, and what she did for fun.
With the fingers of one hand Carrie Sledge tousled the short brunette curls atop her head. They came out in coarse shocks of wiry spring coils, thick, dark and naturally oily. Despite her thirty-eight years not a grey hair could be seen amongst them, at least not beneath the warming spotlights of the dimmed cafe that evening.
With the fingers of the other hand she stirred her cooling cappuccino with the tiny stainless steel spoon, seemingly absent-mindedly; fidgeted with her black-rimmed glasses; rested her cheek in the palm of one hand; slouched forth in a way that seemed unbecoming of her, then self-consciously sat up straight with her shoulders back.
The barista was soon unaware of himself, not even aware that he was smiling at this woman's one-person show, staring, wondering what she would do next. Maybe she was waiting on a date. Maybe he - or would it be a she? - was a no-show, leaving this solitary figure high and dry in favour of a hot bath and an early night.
Maybe she, a regular at Café du Rhone, had no room for companionship in her life for the love of housecats. She didn't smell like it. Tonight, at least, she smelled of dirty rain and blue raspberry vapour.
Though she didn't see him looking, Carrie sensed that eyes were on her, because she often felt that way, and so with a casual hand she made sure that the hem of her black floral-print dress was adequately down at her knees before returning to scrolling through her phone.
Or at least pretending to.
2.
Long quiet minutes passed. One of her earlier friends returned. His name, Jean-Luc, carried easily on the air above Chet Baker and the now diminished chatter around the depopulated Café du Rhone as the Carrie welcomed him back and stowed away her phone back into her tassled brown suede handbag, a sudden and quickly forgotten afterthought.
5'8", slim, fair-skinned, with short thick straw-blonde hair and striking blue eyes, if the barista was any more than closeted and curious he'd have written his name and number on a napkin already, or so he imagined. Jean -Luc carried himself with a grace that seemed both masculine and feline at once - quiet but confident. Also quite pleasant to look at and to listen to.
Jean-Luc came to the counter, said hello again, ordered two coffees, and returned to hold court with the barista's muse. In quick succession a professional couple passing by bid goodnight and made for the door with a grim determination to get home safe and not so cold and wet.
The barista, neck made of rubber, finally caught Carrie's eye from afar in an awkward moment, smiled a thin hint of a smile so vague that it went seemingly unnoticed. That awkward moment proved mercifully brief.
Wilfully distracted by the increasingly unpleasant cold late Autumn wind and moisture following the point of least resistance through the open door as that same couple left du Rhone, the barista's soul stealthily leapt from his body as another customer seemed to have appeared from out of nowhere.
"Hi," he said to the stranger, a weak token of acknowledgement. That went unnoticed too.
He cut a dark figure, this one. Dark and tall and with the subtle bitter intensity of chocolate. Wildly unshaven to the point of looking dirty, his face etched with the fine lines drawn between laughter and hardship. A man without a name, without a poncho, without jangling spurs on his heels. And tonight clearly a city boy too proud to carry an umbrella.
Unapologetically he dripped all over the floor, wiped his soaked face with one hand and shucked that to the floor too before scanning the would-be saloon. The honkytonk piano that never was gave way to the deathly terse silence before the gunfight never to be.
Carrie smiled and waved. Jean-Luc pivoted in his seat and sympathetically looked the stranger up and down, stood up and offered to take his wool-lined imitation sheepskin jacket, which he then draped inside out over the nearest radiator.
3.
The stranger was thankful, shook the Frenchman's hand kindly. His name, as the barista overheard, was Arthur. Sheepishly he ordered himself an Americano, his brown eyes almost as black and oily as his brew of choice. He too smelled of dirty rain, as though he had swam through the gutter to get here, and yet ironically the scent of Pears soap and fabric conditioner also came through.
"Did you choose the music tonight?" he randomly asked, deceivingly relaxed in posture. The barista nodded and smiled. "What's the song?"
"You don't know what love is," the barista replied absently. Arthur tilted his chin upward in a seemingly arrogant nod. He was merely acknowledging the barista, unaware that moments before he had ignored the lonely sod.
"Sad but true," Arthur remarked with a cheeky hint of a smirk, paying for his coffee and leaving the young man cutting a solitary figure against the wintery wet shop window. And he went to join the two at their table, to huddle together and discuss their business, whatever in the world that could be.
