Thread: We All Want Something Beautiful (no sex)

Disclaimer This is just a story, okay. It is meant for grown ups, however the area of the world you live in defines it. Nothing like this ever happened and nothing like it ever should, get it. It is completely something from my imagination. This means it belongs to me, its creator, not to you, even if you live in China. So don't republish or repost or anything like that without me saying it's all right. Formating was done in Courier New, so that is what it looks best in. I spell like crap. suzee did her best to fix it, but their is only so much she can do. Originally posted to alt.sex.stories.moderated 24 February 2006 Thank You and Good Day, Kenny N Gamera We All Want Something Beautiful by Kenny N Gamera I exchange four crumpled sheets of thick paper covered in green ink with the brown eyed, brown haired girl working the counter for a tall, decaf latte with light foam. I also receive shiny metal discs. I let those drop into a handy, empty mug sitting next to the cash register and listen to the clinks as each strikes bottom. Grabbing my new possession, I retreat to the cafe proper. I plop down into a very battered, very old, and very shabby couch, slumping at an angle that would let me keep a half eye on the counter girl. She moves away to the far end of her counter and drops onto a tall stool. Her cheek rests on a fist as she flips through a standard young woman's magazine. I can hear the pages rustle even where I sit. With a noticeable lack of joy, she merely glances at each page in turn, her eyes half closed. After taking a long drink, I place the heavy glass mug down on a beat up old coffee table. My hand slips into my jacket's inside pocket and extracts my handheld. I write He entered the coffee shop and ordered a drink. He sat where he could watch the brown eyed, brown haired girl working the counter. He caught her eye, and she smiled at him. He smiled back at her, and as he took a long sip of his coffee he winked at her, making her giggle. With a sigh, I switch the handheld off and stare at the dark screen. I flip it on again and stare at the two or three words I have added. I ponder what other words I could mate with them with any success. I turn it off again and slide the, as yet unlost, stylus into its cubby. I place it on the tabletop, scant inches from the bottom of the mug. My elbows rest on my knees my face rests in my hands. I sigh before lifting my head up. I scan the handful of people in the single room. In the corner furthest from my seat, a girl sits next to a couple guys who play a game of chess. She is maybe college-aged, maybe high school-aged. I sometimes find it hard to see the difference. The guys smoke, never a good sign of anyone's true age. The girl wears a long, bargain-store skirt with knee length athletic socks and old style canvas tennis shoes on her feet. She stares at the face of each player in turn with the movements of his pieces. One player has a beard, a goatee cut like a cartoon beatnik. The other player has wire framed glasses with a long, black coat draped over the back of his chair. An anti-war button adorns the black beret over his head and ponytailed hair. I have seen her here before. Her deep brown eyes compliment her black dyed hair, her dark makeup, and her pale skin. A small ring pierces her eyebrow. A second one, a thin, fine wire, wraps around her lower lip. I could almost make it out even with the distance, as she smiles and laughs with her friends. She sees me watching, then glances away. The smile loses intensity. I quickly turn my attention to something else. The wall. The small, two-person tables along it are empty, as are the tables between it and me. The local student station plays over the speakers. The young, bright voice of the DJ competes with nothing. She babbles about the coming evening and the parties and the bar scene and how the best music for both will be on her station. I look again at my hand held. I think about my story and about what the main character needs to do to have the young counter girl join him in bed. I turn it on and retrieve the stylus. He siped his drink with purpose, as he read his novel. Between pages he looked over to the counter girl doing her homework. He caught her with the occasional glance in his direction. I drop it and head to the rest room. I lower the seat and sit. As urine runs into the bowl, I stare at the graffiti on the chalkboard mounted on the wall. Nothing fun enough to add to the conversation comes to mind. I stand. I flush. I wash. I leave. The bargain store girl still sits in the corner. A plot flutters through my head. A teacher, a student, an affair, another stupid state law. A romance doomed. I file it away for that someday around the corner. I return to my hand held and my latte. The latte has grown cold. I take a long drink, and then reach for the handheld and my story. The character still sits there in his seat. Still smiling at his giggling counter girl, he waits for me to give him something interesting to do. I stare at my counter girl. She sits statue still except for the turning of the pages. I glance back at the chess game. I twiddle the stylus across the screen enough so my lead finishes his still warm drink He went to the counter for a refill. The girl was watching and rushed to meet him at the counter. She made his drink as they trade small talk. He asked her name. Lyla. Pretty name for a pretty girl. She blushed. You go to the college? Yes, Lyla answered. I'm... I look up and try to think. I can't remember what the girl had mumbled when I had asked her major course of study several weeks ago. It may have been psychology, but then again, maybe not. I decide to make the girl in the story a history major. That was safe. I was almost certain that was not what she had said. And no one majors in history anymore anyway. I take a gulp of cold coffee. I write another word or two. For the most part, others fail to follow them. I place the hand held on the table, again. Inside, I debate on giving up and catching the bus for home. A college girl walks in. She is dressed in sweats and a loaded down backpack over one shoulder. A worn textbook sticks from a loose zipper. She heads to the register. With a slow maneuver, she slides the pack along her arm. A wad of green paper appears from the front pouch. She stands near my height, average for a guy, dishwater blonde streaked with golden strands. Her clothing hides a figure not quite ample and very easily pleasant. White skin shows below her rolled up sleeves. While she waits to be noticed by the counter girl, she looks over the coffee shop. She turns towards me. I smile. She smiles back for a mere second, then turns to see if she is going to be waited on. After a moment, the counter girl looks up from her magazine. The counter girl plods over. When the college girl finishes giving her order, they exchange an empty mug for pieces of paper. She takes the mug over to the vacuum jugs, where she fills the mug. She sits at a table between the wall and me her back faces me. I look down at my hand held. Words haven't come yet and probably won't. I sense it isn't worth fighting, today. I swallow my coffee in three huge gulps and gather my things. No one sees me leave.