Girl at the Coffee Shop

There is a girl who sits at the coffee table in front of mine. She is young and so usually full of joy and life. Every day she comes in at noon, orders a coffee, light on the sugar but heavy on the cream with a dash of nutmeg. With the coffee she orders either a bran muffin or a blueberry scone. The girl is a college student, I think, for she often has a bag of books with her, reading glasses and look of determination on her face. When the coffee and scone arrive she brings out her books and places them on the table and will read them for exactly two hours. After two hours have ticked by slowly she gathers her belongings, leaves the waitress or waiter who served her and then walks out of the little diner just as quietly as she walks in.

The coffee shop where I often visit is a little one on the corner of a very busy street. It’s been open for ten years and is owned by a large Italian family who barely speak English. The aromas that waft out every time the door is opened are Heaven sent. Scents of warm coffee, rich chocolate and deep cinnamon seduce you into coming in for “just a minute”. I often say to myself, “I’ll just be in a minute to get a coffee and then be on my way”, and end up in there for hours at a time, quietly sipping my coffee while reading the newspaper. I do this every morning of every day of every week.

I noticed the young girl frequenting the coffee shop about a month ago. She is a beautiful and frail looking thing, can’t be over the age of nineteen. Her chestnut brown hair is often swept up into a messy bun that perches on the top of her head. She prefers to go unnoticed and therefore dresses in a very plain style, wearing just a simple sweater here or a plain T-shirt there paired with jeans and either boots or tennis shoes depending on the weather. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her wear a spot of makeup or jewelry. The girl was raised with manners for she thanks the waiters and waitresses politely each time they serve her and often tidies up her table and leaves a lovely tip before leaving each day. A  brown book bag is slung over her shoulder and in it heavy books on poetry and music and art. These books are her pride and joy and she takes great care of them, as they are old in age but young in condition. 

 Such a lovely girl and yet I’ve never seen an attractive young man at her side or walking her across the street from her apartment to the coffee shop. I know that no man resides with her for she lives on the floor above mine in a large and very old apartment building. I have often gone upstairs to invite her over for dinner or see if she wants company, but just as I’m about to knock I turn away and leave, for why should she want to spend time with me, an old woman with white hair and deep wrinkles that tell many stories? She is young and will want to spend time with others her age so they can discuss beauty tips and giggle over young men who’ve caught their eyes. What can I talk to her about? I am too old now to be giggling over young men and discussing beauty tips that’ll do me no justice. No, I shall leave her to her own company and mind my own business.

It is a new day and I am at my table at the coffee shop, the waitress has just brought me my coffee and cinnamon roll and now I wait for the young girl to enter. A magazine lies open in front of me, so I begin to read but then I hear the door open and close and she’s at her table. The girl sits down at her table but she has no books with her. Her hair is down and now you see just how long and thick it is and that it is not only a chestnut brown but also has blonde highlights. A bright yellow sweater and white jeans with sandals replace the usual dismal sweater with plain jeans and shoes. And..what’s this? She has on a bracelet and a spot of makeup. I begin to wonder what has brought about this change in her when suddenly a young man appears and sits at the table with her. He is handsome in his own way, with messy brown hair, glasses that sit on the tip of his nose and dimples when he smiles. 

 He is tall with broad shoulders and has a hearty and cheerful laugh. He seems perfect for the young girl, but something feels wrong about him. As though he is faking all this charm and perfection just so he can hurt her in the end. The hairs on the back of my neck all stand high as I observe the two of them. The way he reaches over to kiss her cheek but she moves away, a shy look on her face as she laughs nervously. A look of frustration flashes over his face and is quickly replaced with amusement, as he places his hand firmly on her thigh and kisses her instead on the lips. Her look of delight is forced and in her eyes there’s a look of disgust. I have now put down my magazine to watch as his hand moves up her leg as she squirms uncomfortably under his intense and eery gaze. 

 She squirms more until finally she gets up, telling him she needs to go to the bathroom. The young man doesn’t believe her though, and grabs her wrist and pulls her to his lap. She struggles to get up but he has his arm wrapped around her waist. In an instant his charming face changes into an ugly snarl as he hisses hateful words at her. As tears roll down her cheeks, washing the makeup away and revealing the bruises that she so desperately tried to hide, I feel compelled to get up and rush to her defense. But instead I sit and watch, for what could I, an old woman, do against that young man? But Oh! How my heart wrenches within me to see her suffer so.

The young man snatches her to her feet and drags her back to the apartment. I call the police later, explaining what I saw and am told that unless I see him hit her, they can do nothing.

The young girl stopped frequenting the coffee shop. I got there at the same time each day and did not leave until closing, but still I never saw her. Then one morning the police showed up at my apartment building. They went upstairs and I followed, curious to see what all the fuss was about.

 A dead body had been found, it was a young woman, she’d been raped on multiple occasions and was badly beaten. I recognized her right away and let out a choked cry as I stared into her lifeless eyes. Eyes so blue that used to be full of such life, now were empty. A face so lovely was now covered in purple bruises. The young man was nowhere to be found. Her name was Karena, she was a college student working to get her degree in art and music. She loved coffee, light on the sugar but heavy on the cream with a dash of nutmeg. She ate ramen noodles everyday to save money for college and worked long hours at the bookstore. Her family was dead and she had no other relatives or friends.

There was a young girl who used to sit at the coffee table in front mine, she used to be so full of life, but now she’s gone. I attended her funeral, there was nobody else there, and afterwards I started a campaign on making people aware of the silent abuse women endure. We have saved thousands of lives, thanks to the young girl at the coffee shop.