For a competition. I had a 1000 word limit.
The young man traipsed down the street, Aviators covering his eyes and his dark brown hair spiked up as was the fashion in this day and age. His pants were baggy with dozens of pockets, into which his hands were stuck. And in all the pockets were hundreds of coins, making the cloth bulge and kids turn and look at the chink of metal.
Shelly watched him warily over the counter of Michael’s Place, the cold end of the biro in her mouth pressing against her lip. She clicked her teeth against the neck of the end, scribbled on the corner of a piece of paper to make sure it worked and took the order from the next customer, pasting on a smile and crinkling eyes that were still on the young man as he walked through the door of the café, bell tinkling above him. He looked the troublesome sort, and for that Shelly was wary. Not just that, but ever since he’d turned the corner from the main street and started walking along the path, she’d felt his eyes on her. And because the day before she’d seen him pull an umbrella out of thin air.
“A short black, love?”
The other customer walked away, cappuccino cup held in a precautious grip as she sipped. The man walked up, reached into his many pockets and pulled out a few dollar coins. He turned and looked at the woman as she walked away in her tight suit skirt, shiny new laptop held under one arm and red fingernails grasping. Typical. Shelly blinked at him as he shamelessly lowered his aviators to look.
“Short black, love?” he reminded her. He sounded British.
“Yes, sir.” Shelly put on a smile. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. It wasn’t so much the umbrella thing, he’d just pulled it from his jacket or something. She didn’t know what it was. He pulled his glasses back up as the business woman pushed open the door of the café and disappeared with a cheery jingle.
“Stay in or take away?”
The man grinned. His prominent canine teeth were pearly white, like a movie star.
“I’ll stay in, thanks, love.”
“Would you like to order from our breakfast menu? We have French toast; or you can have an omelet, cereal with yogurt and fresh fruit…?”
“Ah…” the man lent back and looked over at the swanky modern-café menu. “Just toast would be great, with honey, please.”
Shelly held the cup under the espresso machine and waited for the coffee to drizzle out, and pushed it across the counter towards the man.
“I’ll come over with your toast when it’s ready, take a seat.” Giving him a table marker with a bruise-coloured nine on it, she turned with a shiver and a fake smile.
“Hey Greg! Pop some toast in the toaster, will ya? A pot of honey, too, thank you!”
“Right-o, Shell!” Greg yelled back. “After that, head home, ‘kay?”
“Sure.” Shelly took a glimpse at her wrist watch and sighed, washing her hands in the kitchen sink. When the toast popped up and Greg, her boss, yelled she carried it out to the curious young man at table nine along with his pot of honey.
“Hey you go, sir,” she said with a smile. She turned to go and he caught her on the arm. Shelly’s heart started to pound. Slowly she slid her hand over the table behind her and grabbed the sticky handle of a serrated knife.
“Do you want to sit with me?” said the man pleasantly. “I hear you just got off.”
“I’d really better be getting home, sir, but thank you.”
“I insist.”
“Sir, I should really be getting home!” she said, her voice a little higher than intended.
The man let her go. She lurched away.
“That’s too bad. I could have told you how I did that umbrella trick yesterday.”
Shelly forced a thin smile. “Sure, sir. Now -”
The man pulled up a coin, passed his hand over it and it turned into a rose.
Shelly blinked.
“How -”
“Do you want me to show you?”
Shelly looked hesitant, and gripped the knife tighter.
“I won’t hurt you,” the man assured.
Shelly slowly sat, but kept the knife in her hand.
“Okay. Now Shelly, you must tell no one what I tell you.”
“How did you -”
“Good ears, love, good ears.”
Shelly shut her mouth. The man leaned closer, closer than Shelly was comfortable with. He brought up the honey pot between their noses. The sweet smell cloyed Shelly’s nose, reminding her of sunny mornings at home on Christmas.
“I love honey,” the man sighed. Shelly studied his eyes behind the aviators with almost a grimace.
“So!” The man slapped his hands and the pot down on the modern steel table, making Shelly jump. Crash! The other patrons looked at them with surprise.
“Early ninth century China, they created paper money. Did you ever wonder why? Because, my dear, there were certain people that were doing things with their coins, because we both know the power a few round metal pieces have these days, and certainly in those.” He chuckled and lowered his Aviators, as if he and Shelly were sharing a joke together. Ever so smooth, he pulled them up again and continued.
“In those days, merchants had some rights taken away because they could become too powerful. And these certain people, they could make anything appear, except new coins of course. For more coins and the such, these people were known to give people what they wanted, but they were cursed so that they could only do it if someone saw them conjuring. These people were genies – you’ve heard of us.”
Shelly was still doubtful. “Well, I’m not giving you anymore coins -”
“I don’t care about coins, girl! I’ve got enough.”
He lent forward again and flipped a coin up in his fingers.
“Make a wish, love.”
