Basic Anatomical Parts
Alexandre Dumas
When I got out of the building later that day, it was still raining. Not the downpour I’d expected, but raining nonetheless. The streets were hung with wet muck and filth; soggy people ducked into doorways and skirted sullied puddles, sodden newspapers bleeding ink onto their heads; the sky itself subsisted dull in white, too gloomy even to choose rain or shine with poise. The bright darkness was unnervingly peculiar.
I was walking down Washington Square East, passing the park, when the dull glow of Faye’s @ the Square caught my eye. Not a place I was familiar with, I watched two girls as they came out, steaming coffees breathing fog in frozen hands. I’d never been much of a coffee-drinker—booze was more my speed—but the soft light trickling through the windows was invitation enough.
Glancing briefly both ways, I dashed across the street, boots splashing loudly, and pulled on the handle of the narrow, splintering door. Coffee beans and cinnamon assaulted me, sickly sweet and disarming.
It was a cavernous place, with soft lampshades hanging from high ceilings, long yellow walls, and tall tables in the windows—a mom-and-pop’s bought out by Starbucks. At midday on a Tuesday, it was only moderately busy—mostly students grabbing an energy boost between classes, by the looks of it.
A slender woman—more girl than woman with her slim, boyish frame—sat at a table for two near the bar, body angled forward, eyes fastened to a computer screen. The brilliance of the white light shining on her face and reflecting in her glasses made it impossible to discern whether the flick of her eyes at my entrance had been real or a simple trick of the light. The brawny man in the corner, however, was definitely shooting furtive glances at his coffee shop compatriots.
Yeah, you and me both, babe, I thought miserably. Coffee shops held certain connotations – connotations predominantly involving secondhand plaid shirts, feathers, and fedoras or books, binders, and the thickest of black rimmed glasses. These were not my people.
Shifting uncertainly, I made my way to a tall table snuggling the glass. The chill seeped through the window, veiling its surface with cold fog and screening off the saturated outside world.
“Caramel Macchiato!”
I swung my bag onto the table, forgetting momentarily the four-hundred and fifty dollar Compaq inside. I hadn’t had need for it today, introductions and expectations being the norm for the first day of classes, but its cry of anguish now was all too lucid.
I turned my gaze to the glass, debating whether or not I had it in me to ruin my day further: It seemed unlikely, after my sentencing, that my mother would have overlooked something as blatant as my Facebook account. She’d even disconnected my cell phone, for Christ’s sake. No strings left untied.
“Caffè Misto!”
I wondered what they were doing now. I mean, it had only been a few days, but they had to know I was gone, and they’d feel snubbed. A caricature image of them cursing irately while they burned things of mine, so frequently borrowed that they’d become ours, flashed through my head. I had little doubt that 'Jaidea' was a four letter word now. And fuck, I’d be pissed, too. Gabe was probably the angriest of them all…Shit. Well, it’s not like any of this was my choice. They have to understand that.
But of course I knew they wouldn’t. People like them didn't understand things like this. I’d simply disappeared. Without a word. And all they had now was a strange family living in my house and a number no longer in service.
I blew out a long, deep breath.
Outside more soaked people were jogging down the street, making a run for the dorms and dry shelter, not a worry in their little worlds beyond frizzing hair and suede boots.
I leaned back in my seat, dejection spreading through me like my breath on the glass. I looked around for a clock in the coffee shop, but no such device graced its walls. I’d just have to watch the sky on this one.
“Americano!”
I glanced at the thick book protruding from my bag. Seven hundred and thirty-six pages – and picture free, no less. I watched the people running down the street a moment longer before resigning to the dismally typical coffee shop cliché, grabbing the book roughly.
The cover, browning green beneath a portrait of several men in seventeenth-century garb brandishing rapiers and muskets, was less than inviting, but the author’s name caught my eye: Dumas. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind a bell was ringing. Alexandre Dumas.
I squinted at the small painted figures loaded down with brush-stroked blades and pinpoint francs.
“Hazelnut latte!”
Maybe a little caffeine would jog my memory.
I was walking down Washington Square East, passing the park, when the dull glow of Faye’s @ the Square caught my eye. Not a place I was familiar with, I watched two girls as they came out, steaming coffees breathing fog in frozen hands. I’d never been much of a coffee-drinker—booze was more my speed—but the soft light trickling through the windows was invitation enough.
Glancing briefly both ways, I dashed across the street, boots splashing loudly, and pulled on the handle of the narrow, splintering door. Coffee beans and cinnamon assaulted me, sickly sweet and disarming.
It was a cavernous place, with soft lampshades hanging from high ceilings, long yellow walls, and tall tables in the windows—a mom-and-pop’s bought out by Starbucks. At midday on a Tuesday, it was only moderately busy—mostly students grabbing an energy boost between classes, by the looks of it.
A slender woman—more girl than woman with her slim, boyish frame—sat at a table for two near the bar, body angled forward, eyes fastened to a computer screen. The brilliance of the white light shining on her face and reflecting in her glasses made it impossible to discern whether the flick of her eyes at my entrance had been real or a simple trick of the light. The brawny man in the corner, however, was definitely shooting furtive glances at his coffee shop compatriots.
Yeah, you and me both, babe, I thought miserably. Coffee shops held certain connotations – connotations predominantly involving secondhand plaid shirts, feathers, and fedoras or books, binders, and the thickest of black rimmed glasses. These were not my people.
Shifting uncertainly, I made my way to a tall table snuggling the glass. The chill seeped through the window, veiling its surface with cold fog and screening off the saturated outside world.
“Caramel Macchiato!”
I swung my bag onto the table, forgetting momentarily the four-hundred and fifty dollar Compaq inside. I hadn’t had need for it today, introductions and expectations being the norm for the first day of classes, but its cry of anguish now was all too lucid.
I turned my gaze to the glass, debating whether or not I had it in me to ruin my day further: It seemed unlikely, after my sentencing, that my mother would have overlooked something as blatant as my Facebook account. She’d even disconnected my cell phone, for Christ’s sake. No strings left untied.
“Caffè Misto!”
I wondered what they were doing now. I mean, it had only been a few days, but they had to know I was gone, and they’d feel snubbed. A caricature image of them cursing irately while they burned things of mine, so frequently borrowed that they’d become ours, flashed through my head. I had little doubt that 'Jaidea' was a four letter word now. And fuck, I’d be pissed, too. Gabe was probably the angriest of them all…Shit. Well, it’s not like any of this was my choice. They have to understand that.
But of course I knew they wouldn’t. People like them didn't understand things like this. I’d simply disappeared. Without a word. And all they had now was a strange family living in my house and a number no longer in service.
I blew out a long, deep breath.
Outside more soaked people were jogging down the street, making a run for the dorms and dry shelter, not a worry in their little worlds beyond frizzing hair and suede boots.
I leaned back in my seat, dejection spreading through me like my breath on the glass. I looked around for a clock in the coffee shop, but no such device graced its walls. I’d just have to watch the sky on this one.
“Americano!”
I glanced at the thick book protruding from my bag. Seven hundred and thirty-six pages – and picture free, no less. I watched the people running down the street a moment longer before resigning to the dismally typical coffee shop cliché, grabbing the book roughly.
The cover, browning green beneath a portrait of several men in seventeenth-century garb brandishing rapiers and muskets, was less than inviting, but the author’s name caught my eye: Dumas. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind a bell was ringing. Alexandre Dumas.
I squinted at the small painted figures loaded down with brush-stroked blades and pinpoint francs.
“Hazelnut latte!”
Maybe a little caffeine would jog my memory.