Bashful Hearts
the artist.
He loved to explore. Having just started his first semester at the art institute, he was interested in all that his new environment had to offer. He’d moved from a small town in Kansas to an exciting city in Oregon and he was determined to discover all of the nooks and crannies he could find. He took a left instead of his usual right on the way back to his dorm and he found a place he’d never seen before. It was a hole in the wall coffee shop that was barely marked. Like it was a secret, safe haven for those who accidentally stumble upon it, a whisper in a chattering crowd, a place so special that you wouldn’t even tell your best friend about it because you had been the one to discover it and you wanted to call it yours.
Pulling open the door, the tinkling of bells resonated through the store to alert the clerk of a customer. It wasn’t one of those obnoxious doorbells though, simply the tittering of bells that reminded you of Christmas. He entered, taking in the smell of coffee beans and old books. Bookcases lined the walls – in fact, you couldn’t see any actual part of the wall. There were books from floor to ceiling. Some looked like classic novels, others more modern.
“Welcome to Mary Rose’s, please, make yourself at home,” came the voice of an older woman behind the counter – no doubt the owner and perhaps Mary Rose herself. He sent over a polite smile to the woman who looked like the type of grandmother to feed you until you couldn’t move and took a seat near a window. It had started to rain since he came inside.
He scanned the store, taking everything about it in. It looked vintage. And not in that way that hipsters tried to make things vintage, but truly old and antique. He like the genuine feeling he got from this place. He’d have to remember which way he’d come so he could find it again. He fingered the lace doily on the table when his espresso eyes lingered on one thing in particular. One person in particular, actually.
A girl. She sat at the table in the middle of the store, scribbling away furiously in a notepad. Her pink fingernails blurred from how quickly she was writing. Her lips were pursed and her hurricane gray eyes narrowed into concentrated slits. Hair that reminded him of the color of the dead grass in his yard back at home after taking the swimming pool off of it was pushed up by one hand in obvious frustration. It was wavy – not straight nor curly. He could tell that that was just how her hair was, too, not concocted by some sort of shampoo or spray or iron.
He stared longer, taking in the color of her skin and the way she huffed and puffed like she was like only person around. But suddenly, she looked up, and caught him staring instantly. Those hurricane eyes wreaked havoc on his heart and he knew that he’d come back to this place every day just to maybe catch her glance.
Pulling open the door, the tinkling of bells resonated through the store to alert the clerk of a customer. It wasn’t one of those obnoxious doorbells though, simply the tittering of bells that reminded you of Christmas. He entered, taking in the smell of coffee beans and old books. Bookcases lined the walls – in fact, you couldn’t see any actual part of the wall. There were books from floor to ceiling. Some looked like classic novels, others more modern.
“Welcome to Mary Rose’s, please, make yourself at home,” came the voice of an older woman behind the counter – no doubt the owner and perhaps Mary Rose herself. He sent over a polite smile to the woman who looked like the type of grandmother to feed you until you couldn’t move and took a seat near a window. It had started to rain since he came inside.
He scanned the store, taking everything about it in. It looked vintage. And not in that way that hipsters tried to make things vintage, but truly old and antique. He like the genuine feeling he got from this place. He’d have to remember which way he’d come so he could find it again. He fingered the lace doily on the table when his espresso eyes lingered on one thing in particular. One person in particular, actually.
A girl. She sat at the table in the middle of the store, scribbling away furiously in a notepad. Her pink fingernails blurred from how quickly she was writing. Her lips were pursed and her hurricane gray eyes narrowed into concentrated slits. Hair that reminded him of the color of the dead grass in his yard back at home after taking the swimming pool off of it was pushed up by one hand in obvious frustration. It was wavy – not straight nor curly. He could tell that that was just how her hair was, too, not concocted by some sort of shampoo or spray or iron.
He stared longer, taking in the color of her skin and the way she huffed and puffed like she was like only person around. But suddenly, she looked up, and caught him staring instantly. Those hurricane eyes wreaked havoc on his heart and he knew that he’d come back to this place every day just to maybe catch her glance.
♠ ♠ ♠
starting a new chapter story - I've pre-written a lot of it and I know exactly where I want it to go, so I expect this to go well. this is going to be a very precious story. :) comments, recommendations, and subscriptions are more than welcome and appreciated.