Hidden In Hiding

The look of confusion that contorted my face was inevitable as I looked incredulously over the comic panels again. I was currently engrossed in some issue of Superman purely for the hell of it, and this particular issue seemed to focus more on Clark and Lois’ romance than it did bad-guy-ass-kicking. Love, to me, was considered a completely despicable and cruel illusion, hence the confusion at why it was included in one of my all-time favorite comic series. Love just never made sense to me, never existed to me. It often occurred to me that this view, or lack thereof, was probably my fault, but this argument never swayed my decision to despise it and keep it a safe enough distance away from me.

My internal argument was disrupted by a subtle cough from my right. I flipped the comic shut and glanced up to be met by the gaze of my manager, John. He owned the comic shop I currently spent my days earning money at.

“You’re good to go, Gerard,” he said with a smile, releasing me from my duties today. I gave him a slight smile in return, and replied with a curt “See you tomorrow,” and gathered my black leather jacket (that contained my cigarettes and wallet) before exiting the shop. I wasn’t a man of many words to anyone and I had my reasons. I think John understood that, or he seemed to anyway. I never asked, for obvious reasons. As long as I did my job and was friendly to the customers, I didn’t think John minded how much I spoke, even if I was a serial killer or something. Okay, that was going a little too far, but hey, who’s to say I couldn’t be right?

I pulled my jacket tighter around my body to better shield myself from the chilly October air as I walked. The Newark air was just bone-chilling during the Fall and Winter seasons. I would move west, where it’s warmer, if money wasn’t an issue.

I figured a coffee would be the perfect way to keep me warm enough for the walk home, so I detoured through a street and made my way into the Starbucks located at the end of the block. I stepped in, and relished in the warmth and the smells that were present in the shop. This had to be the closest thing to Heaven on God’s green Earth. It took a few moments before I could bring myself to move on to the counter and order my coffee, but when I did, and forked over the three seventy-two to get it, it was all I could do to wait patiently while the barista prepared my drink. She finally set it on the counter for me to retrieve it, and I smiled my thanks to her. As I liked my coffee black, there were no necessary additions that needed to be made to the scalding hot liquid, and I brought it to my lips, sipping tentatively. I spun slightly to make my exit, the cup still pressed to my mouth, just reaching my lips, when suddenly the coffee seemingly flew out of my hand in a sort of slow motion across the room, and next thing I knew, I planted face first into the linoleum floor of the shop.

“Oh, shit, man, I’m so sorry!” an anxious voice expressed from somewhere above me. I turned my head slightly to see where the voice had come from, and was met with a hand in my face.

I gripped it cautiously, and allowed myself to be pulled back to my feet. I turned to meet the owner of the hand, but had to stop short when I caught sight of the beautiful rather short man standing before me. He was about a head shorter than me with a black fringe coming down over his face, olive-skinned, sporting lip and nose rings, and many tattoos.

After my heart restarted After the shock of the situation had kind of worn off, I managed to slightly shake my head at the stranger and muttered an “It’s fine.” The only words I found appropriate at the moment.

“I’m sorry again, dude,” the kid told me. “Let me buy you another coffee, yours is kinda, uh, gone.” He provided with a shrug. I shook my head again, communicating to him that it wasn’t necessary for him to waste his money on me, but he insisted, and wouldn’t let it rest until I’d told him what I’d been drinking before the incident. When I told him, he returned to the lady at the counter, paid the three seventy-two, and returned to me where I stood awkwardly near a table. He thrust the drink into my hand with a lop-sided smile that I swear made my heart falter for a full two seconds, and raised his own cup as if to give a toast.

“Drink up,” he offered. “I’m Frank, by the way. Frank Iero.”