Wednesdays

Joes was a small, snug cafe tightly squeezed in between a hairdressers and one of those brick buildings no-one quite knows what to do with. It was fairly busy, most of the customers being regulars, and the people serving knowing what they wanted before they had even reached the counter. The interior was homey and comforting; light cream walls and scruffy wooden flooring, a constant smell of brewing coffee and sweet cakes hung like fog in the air, encompassing anyone who entered.

For these reasons, and that it was always warm, this was one of my favourite places in the world. I didn’t like modern, I didn’t like money, which was a good thing too, since I lacked it severely, but I liked coffee and warmth. I liked Joes. Because in Joes everyone knew me as someone else, and that’s who I liked to be.

The coffee in my hands burned pleasantly against my freshly cold skin, its dreamy smell wafting up into my face and the taste stinging my tongue. That’s how I liked my coffee; hot. Even when summer decided to drag its tendrils of warmth over this town, hot was the only way to drink it.

My black Sony Ericsson vibrated lazily against my leg, alerting me to a new message. With no kind of urgency I pulled my hand away from the hot cup of coffee and down to my jean pocket, slipping the phone into my hand and lifting it up to read the text.

Hey Krissy! I-

I rolled my eyes and deleted the text the moment I saw who it was from. She just wasn’t worth it anymore, she had moved away, and needed to stay out of my life as far as I was now concerned. That’s what they say about young love, it never lasts. And in regard to her, I intended to keep it that way.

In a movement comparative to a sloth, I pushed my phone back into the tight denim of my jeans, and settled my hand back onto the white china of my coffee cup.

Today was Wednesday; and I started every Wednesday, regardless of the weather, the season, anything, in Joes with a scorching cup of coffee. It was how I woke myself up on Wednesdays, any other days of the week and I would quite happily settle for a Starbucks coffee in a foam cup taken back to my apartment. Wednesdays had always been special to me.
With a small smile playing around my lips, for no reason other than the fact I was in Joes, I raised the coffee to my lips, and took a long sip.

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A line of delightful blue appeared along the side of my canvas, demonstrating I had mixed the colours to the level of perfection desired. I delicately dipped the fine paint-brush into the blue and leant up close to the canvas, my tongue curving around my lips in concentration.

This was pretty much my Wednesdays. Wake-up, shower, change, go to Joes, come back home, paint, shower, sleep. I didn’t need to eat on Wednesdays, I ate every other day of the week and I found it rather annoying and time-consuming to eat every day. It may not be the healthiest of solutions, but I didn’t like gaining weight; I didn’t like being anything but perfect.

I always told myself in high school that one-day I would be tall and thin, and now that it had happened, I had no drive to do anything with my life. I wasn’t dumb, nor was I lazy, I had qualifications, I just had no real reason to use them. Money wasn’t plentiful, but it didn’t need to be, I didn’t want to be rich. Happiness could be achieved with a cup of coffee, a paintbrush, and a cigarette. Big houses, Jacuzzis, expensive clothing and servants did nothing for me.

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Hours later I set down my paintbrush and took a step back from my canvas, removing a cigarette from my mouth and running my eyes up and down the piece of art I had been working on. It wasn’t much, a dark haired girl with a red dress peering down over a bridge and watching an open-top boats procession down an unnatural Caribbean-blue river.

Picture yourself in a boat on a river,
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies,
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly
A girl with kaleidoscope eyes

The Beatles drifted evenly through my apartment, keeping the calm feeling Joes had given me. I liked that feeling of quiet and calm, of coffee and cigarettes, of slow, vintage music. My friend thought I was odd, out-of-touch, un-successful. Well, I wouldn’t really call them friends. They were more people I talked to when I came across them every now and then. I didn’t need friends, I wasn’t particularly social, and when I was in education I had been rather...untactful to know.

All resulting in me being about as independent as one can get, my foster parents had been somewhat of a suffocating nightmare, and I vouched to keep to my space if they kept to theirs. I haven’t heard from them since I moved out three years ago. I was glad, their loud high-pitched voices, lectures and scolding’s were sure to bring about a break in my blissful equilibrium.

With a tired-out sigh I pushed the end of my cigarette into a nearby tray and dropped my paintbrush into my kitchen sink, telling myself I would wash it tomorrow, like I always did.
There was just something I loved about routine.