Mr. Rusco said he'd be here by 10 o'clock sharp. Every ding of the coffee shop bell presented a new stranger, but not Mr. Rusco. I was here to discuss with him a matter about my recent court case concerning his daughter, Dahlia. She had seen things. Some things were never meant to get out.
The chairs were wooden and very uncomfortable. They were the kind that were propped too high with no foot rest so your feet dangled restlessly. The barista gave side glances I didn't much care for. Her coffee, much less. And the red brick walls were trying too hard to be like every hipster cafe on the block. But I came here intended to wait until I met Mr. Rusco, no matter how irksome the atmosphere was.
He said, "10 o'clock sharp. Don't make me wait, I don't have much time to chit chat about this nonsense you think my daughter has anything to do with. You are a maniac and I don't like you, I don't like who you are, you dress horribly." To be fair, I don't have a great sense of style. My wardrobe consists mainly of those knock off Chuck Taylor's and ex-boyfriend tees that have the names of bands I've never heard of. Though my eyes were dark brown, I preferred the look of really light blue eye contacts so it made my natural black hair look like a bad dye job. And let's not get started on my tattoos.
The ding of the coffee shop bell prompts me to turn towards the door. I looked at my watch; 9:58. Real smooth, Mr Rusco. He spotted me and walked over. In his hands were two coffee cups. He sets one in front of me and motioned me to drink, but I don't touch the cup. He senses my confusion. "I'm a proper man, " he scopes the shop and says almost under his breath, "and I don't much favor the barista's coffee." In front of me are two coffee cups, one from the shop and one from Mr Rusco. I'm not sure which one would be the one to give me a bad taste in my mouth.
The chairs were wooden and very uncomfortable. They were the kind that were propped too high with no foot rest so your feet dangled restlessly. The barista gave side glances I didn't much care for. Her coffee, much less. And the red brick walls were trying too hard to be like every hipster cafe on the block. But I came here intended to wait until I met Mr. Rusco, no matter how irksome the atmosphere was.
He said, "10 o'clock sharp. Don't make me wait, I don't have much time to chit chat about this nonsense you think my daughter has anything to do with. You are a maniac and I don't like you, I don't like who you are, you dress horribly." To be fair, I don't have a great sense of style. My wardrobe consists mainly of those knock off Chuck Taylor's and ex-boyfriend tees that have the names of bands I've never heard of. Though my eyes were dark brown, I preferred the look of really light blue eye contacts so it made my natural black hair look like a bad dye job. And let's not get started on my tattoos.
The ding of the coffee shop bell prompts me to turn towards the door. I looked at my watch; 9:58. Real smooth, Mr Rusco. He spotted me and walked over. In his hands were two coffee cups. He sets one in front of me and motioned me to drink, but I don't touch the cup. He senses my confusion. "I'm a proper man, " he scopes the shop and says almost under his breath, "and I don't much favor the barista's coffee." In front of me are two coffee cups, one from the shop and one from Mr Rusco. I'm not sure which one would be the one to give me a bad taste in my mouth.
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