TWO CUPS OF HARMONY

[AMERICONORMAN]

TWO CUPS OF HARMONY

By Jose Gainza

I actually entered the Starbucks to have a cup of dark, bitter-sweet coffee, over the act of writing the first chapter, of the book of Holy Scriptures, of the religion I was to then originate and create. The idea of doing so had tickled me from time to time these last few years. That day and that hour I knew that I wanted to follow through.

Before I entered I was disappointed at finding that one store operator was a woman, and the other one was a male who was not exceptionally beautiful but who did share in the harmony of beauty to some extent. And it was then that I knew that I was being emotional because the desire to see a beautiful employee was not my explicit purpose. And I was about to follow through with that, so I needed to order that cup of coffee, pour some of it out in the garbage, so I could add a sufficient amount of milk; and so I could sit down at a round table, to begin to write my religion.

When I arrived at the cash register to place my order I smiled to find a third employee greeting me; his smile being the omnipotent cause of mine. It was then obvious that when I entered the shop, his figure was hiding behind the pillar at the register. He was skinny and young. I was thirty. I knew that there was enough evidence on his physical body and the way he dressed for me to believe that he was of age. There was maturity in the ease with which he greeted me and its seeming sincerity. I allowed myself, for that short moment, and took advantage of his good service to contemplate the degree of his harmony, which was simply irresistible.

The name tag on his chest said: Ritchie.

In that moment it was clear that he was good at customer service because his talent made me feel that I had a chance with him. Smiles can be powerful and his dominated that short moment. But I was not there to try anything with him. It was not my purpose to investigate whether he was intellectual. I admit that it was hard to believe that our souls could satisfy each other for more than a dozen minutes or so.

I smiled and walked away to the preparation counter. I sat down at a small round table by the window and immediately began to brainstorm. I was intent in a burst of brainstorming, as my eyes stared at a wall across the room, right through the face of the boy at the register. I asked myself a question: What will be the character of my Deity? Soon after I asked: What will I make his moral commandments and to whom, his would be followers—and will they be commandments?

And then a cell phone rang at the table just across from me. And then I saw her face. I did not notice her as I entered the coffee shop. I described her in my mind, as she looked outside the window, no longer partly hidden by hanging hair, her phone at her cheek. I actually said to myself, “She is quite beautiful; exceptional; nearing the stature of the boy at the register.” And then she placed her phone down on the table and returned to her reading.

I decided that it was very nice to feel delight in the harmony of this woman. I must admit that I hardly notice women. But sometimes—sometimes—a few are ideal representatives of nature’s beauty, that I can’t help it to enjoy an innocent and safe delight. I had never informed one of this before. I began to imagine what I would say to her if I had the courage to tell her so.

And then her cell phone rang again. I heard her soft voice say incomprehensible words, though they were loud enough to know that they were English. I noticed this time that her lips were thin, long and wine colored though without lipstick. I contemplated that face again and recalled the words of description I had given to her before. And then she put the phone back down to return to her reading, so that her hair veiled her face.

And then I spoke.

“I was glad that you picked up the phone to answer that second call.” I said it aloud to grab her attention but I failed.

“I was glad that you picked up the phone to answer that second call!” This time she looked up slightly puzzled. I looked her straight inside her wolf-like eyes and politely said it again.

“Why?” She then asked.

“Because I was able to contemplate your face as you had to hold your head level to engage in your conversation, so that I took advantage of your distraction in that conversation, as you looked out this window at our side.” I nodded at the window.

“Why would you want to contemplate my face?”

“It is exceptionally beautiful.”

“What did you see?” She said it with challenge.

I recalled those words again. “I saw your small head and your blonde, thin, long hair, as it fell close to wrap the skin of your face. I saw your blue eyes that gave me the feeling of looking into the eyes of a happy wolf. I saw your delicate features, your fine, pointy nose, you sharp chin, and your cheeks flat but curved as if by perfect craftsmanship. I saw the appropriateness of your dark, thin long eyebrows. I saw that your face had the quality of a greatly cared for porcelain doll, cared for by its creator, and yet you were so real, so absolute. Your stare, when it chanced to catch mine, expressed awareness—simple, magnificent consciousness—of a woman in control of her person. And as I saw you intently read and underline your book, I knew that you were happily aware of your purpose; that you were shamelessly intelligent.”

She remained silent in a look that seemed frightened. But I continued.

“I was thinking that in this moment some great man should paint you.”

And then she smiled and said in a tone of sarcastic, benevolent mockery, “that’s original.”

“Most pretty girls would think like you do now, wouldn’t they?”

“I think so.”

“How else would people meet? What’s so unfriendly and ill-suited about the nude truth? Starting with that does not have to make the intention sexual … but I’m actually—”

“—You’re right.” She interrupted me.

I smiled and continued, “But I’m actually gay.” She grasped it with ease.

“You’re right,” she said, “Not because I’m presently attracted to your own beauty … it’s because if my fiancé were here now, and heard you say what you have said, he would become ferociously furious at—at your nice compliment.”

“I would suppose sometimes a daring man has to bite his lips.”

“You mean ‘tongue’!”

“No; lips would stop speech too.”

“You’ve just allowed me to identify a problem in my romantic relationship. But thank you for your gesture and your compliment.”

“Is it his jealousy?”

She nodded affirmatively.

I arose from the table and spoke to her thus, “I will leave you then to think about that. Perhaps we will run into each other again here soon.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

I walked out and went home to write an ode as an opening to my book of Holy Scripture to the image of a beautiful man.

THE END

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[Starblade Enkai]

What exactly is the point of this story? I'm curious.

[AMERICONORMAN]

Watch what happens. It's only two pages. So watch:

A man is distracted by beauty. He has the courage to tell a strange woman that she is beautiful. There's benevolence in that. I count on the idea that most men would be angry to hear compliments so blatant. But obviously this man is not interested in her romantically. So it isolates the idea of benevolence, of justice, of appreciating beauty for beauty's sake. And the woman confirms that indeed her boyfriend would be jealous. Five minutes in a coffee shop will now lead her to re-evaluate a major decision in her life.

I think it's beautifully done. One of my favorite lines is when he talk about biting his lips versus tongue. It reveals his character in which ever way you want to understand it. But there is a connotation that I intended.

Thanks for the question.

Jose.

[AMERICONORMAN]

The act of me writing it was also a perfect expression of the romantic principle in literature: what could be and should be.

I was actually in a coffee shop when I wrote it. I did see a beautiful woman. I wondered what I should say to her. But I did not speak to her, though I admired her beauty. But what could I do? I could speak to her. But I preferred to write about it. Should any man be afraid to do so? If she were alone, perhaps. Now make it more difficult--if she was with a man, a strong man, who seemed to be her boyfriend, most certainly. Would one dare? Yes, I think one should.

Ta da,

Jose Gainza.

[kufa]

I found this thuroghly enjoyable.