- Fall Like the Leaves, Part One: The Man in Black
By Rebecka Jones, Staff Writer
Everything was gray — the sky, the shadows, the buildings, the people. Everyone went about life the same way everyday; the same gray people came into the same gray coffee shop to order the same boring drink.
I remembered every single face and the name and drink that went with it. Sometimes I started working on their coffee before they even stepped foot inside the shop. I smiled and said their name in greeting when they came up to the counter, holding out their finished drink like I was some magician who read their mind when, in reality, I just knew the routine.
It was the same gray routine everyday since my parents became friends with death and left me with hardly anything to live off of but a tiny old house at the end of a lonely street in a town where nothing ever happens.
Well, it was until someone new entered the coffee shop one day.
I was handing Mrs. Jones her coffee that day and as she said her typical enthusiastic “Thank you, Faith!”, a dark, burly man stepped inside. His shoulders were broad, biceps protruding against his long-sleeved shirt. He wore black from neck to toe, his button up shirt hugging tightly to his muscular frame. The darkness of his clothes matched his unsmiling expression and shadowy eyes; the only thing that stood out among his darkness was his dirty blond hair that was almost humorous among the gloomy features.
His body loomed over mine when he approached the counter and his voice matched his physique when he ordered, deep and gravelly. He got a latte, never said anything besides his order and “thank you,” and then he left swiftly. He never let me get his name for the order, so I had to call out the drink.
After that, he came to the shop everyday. He dressed in black every time, always wearing a serious face to match. Unlike everyone else in the town, he ordered a different drink everyday. Black. Mocha. Americano. Another latte. Macchiato. One day he threw in a bacon and egg sandwich. I couldn’t memorize his order and it frustrated me. I couldn’t figure out who in the world this guy was, or why someone so gorgeous — oops, did I say that? — who looks like they could kill you with only a napkin would show up in this boring town.
I was especially caught off-guard the other day. I took his order — “an iced mocha, in this weather?” I thought—and took his payment before saying “have a nice day,” like normal. But then he did something I didn’t think his face muscles were physically capable of doing. He smiled. It was a beautiful smile, a set of pearly whites. It was a smile your mind snapshots and keeps locked away to replay at night until you can’t sleep. It lifted his cheeks to reveal a dimple on the right one and reached his dark eyes and made them glow. I never saw a smile quite like it.
I couldn’t understand then why he smiled at me. He never did before.
He smiled at me everyday after that and, everyday, it would make my heart leap and legs weak; I fumbled my words multiple times when he smiled. I didn’t know why and I hated that I couldn’t figure it out – I hated that he was the only person in this small town who I couldn’t understand.
I knew I should stay away and keep to my normal routine, but I thought that if he’s already ruining it, I might as well take a step forward. Something about him screamed danger — the way he dressed, his dark eyes, that scar underneath his lips, his too-perfect-to-exist smile… I don’t know. Something about him told every bone in my body to avoid his presence unless absolutely necessary. I couldn’t, though. There was another small part of me that was curious about this man and the risks that came with him.
I tried to find ways to subtly start a conversation with him. One day, I purposely put his order in wrong so he’d talk to me and tell me it was wrong so I could joke about how clumsy I was. All he did was take his incorrect drink order, flashed me his signature smile, and left.
Another day, I was sweeping the floors when he was about to walk out and pretended to drop my broom in front of him. He picked it up, handed it to me, smiled, and left once again. His hand brushed mine when he handed me the broom, his warmness making me shiver. It was the first time he’d touched me. His hand was rough yet his touch gentle and I felt the ghost of it every night after that.
All my attempts to talk to him failed and I was about to give up, until today.
I’m outside the shop sweeping dead leaves off the sidewalk, hands pink from the cold autumn air. It is once again gray and cloudy, so the breeze passing by is even colder. I shiver and check my watch: 7:55a.m. He’s late.
He always comes in at 7:30 on the dot. No, I’m not a stalker, it’s just something I picked up. I like routines, remember? And it seems he likes them, too, so where in the world was he?
I huff, a cloud of fog billowing out in front of me. I turn in a circle, in hopes he is somewhere nearby. I only see normal pedestrians walking along the sidewalk or standing by the bus stop. A lot of people out today are wearing brown coats or bright sweaters paired with jeans and dark shoes. Some have gloves or ear muffs to protect themselves from the cold. I don’t notice any dark colors among the people, which makes my heart sink.
I grab the door handle to step inside the shop when, suddenly, I hear a scream. A man’s scream. I spin on my heels and drop the broom, searching for the source. What the heck? Everyone nearby looks unharmed, but most of them are glancing in the direction where the scream came from.
My feet are moving before my brain has a chance to process. The scream has gone silent, but I hear shoes scraping on concrete and loud grunts coming from two buildings down. My heart pounds against my ribcage and my breaths turn ragged as I use every ounce of energy in me to make it to whoever let out the scream.
My instinct is telling me to turn back now, to pretend like nothing happened and return to my normal routine, but my curiosity keeps me moving forward.
The grunting gets louder as I approach, crashing and thudding accompanying it; I quickly realize the sounds are coming from the alleyway just ahead of me. I round the corner and stop in my tracks.
A large figure wearing a black suit has a man pinned against the old, brick building, one hand clasped around the man’s throat, the other pointing a pistol at his forehead. Blood drips from the helpless man’s frowning mouth. His nose is at an odd angle. His face is red and bruised. His bright, blue eyes are bulging out of his skull as he stares up at the gun aimed at his forehead.
The dark figure, I realize, is another man. My heart jumps into my throat as I take in his broad shoulders and recognize those calloused hands and bulging arms. His face wears a dark expression, filled with what seems to be rage as he pushes the barrel of the gun into the man’s head. His teeth are gritted. His dirty blond hair is dripping with sweat, falling over those beautiful dark eyes.
It’s him.
My feet are glued to the ground. What I realize is bile — and not my heart — crawls up my throat and threatens to spill the contents of my breakfast everywhere. I swallow deeply to try to keep it down. Everything is spinning until I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
I must have been standing there for ages because the two men notice my presence. The man from the coffee shop lowers the gun from the other’s head, but that’s all it takes for the pinned man to send him flying backwards and colliding with the opposite wall. The other man hits the gun out of his hand, pins him against the wall, and delivers blow after blow.
A scream rips from my throat, and I find myself propelling forward without a second thought. I throw myself at the assailant, his body moving wildly as I latch onto his back. He spins and claws at my arms, cutting into my skin with his sharp nails and making me yelp. He strangles out profanities as I squeeze his throat and backs me into a wall, knocking the air out of my lungs. A sharp pain shoots up my spine as I fall to the ground.
I see stars as I look up at him looming over me, teeth bared and bloody. His hand curls into a fist and rises. I close my eyes and prepare for the blow, but it never comes. Instead, I hear a gunshot and a thud.
My eyes fly open to see the man lying on the floor, blood spewing out of his forehead. His eyes are wide open, glazed with what I realize is death.
Blotches of black cover my vision and I realize I’m not breathing again. I can’t until my brain fully processes that this guy just tried to kill me and now, he’s a dead body in front of me. And the man who killed him — the man whose face is forever ingrained in my brain — is now standing before me, holding the gun and looking at me with those deep, dark eyes.
