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Café Rain
SubversiveInterloper
7/21/2017   
 
This is a story about you. Which is nice, because you've always wanted to hear a story about you.

This is a story about how you find yourself walking down the main street of your local small town or one nearby, window shopping as you go, your cellphone to your ear as a close relative or friend tells you the latest feel good story going on in their own life. While your heart is aglow for them, you find yourself getting more engrossed with each passing syllable that you somehow manage to find yourself a block in from the main street.

If you've never been down this block, and I'm most certain you haven't, you'd know that there is a tall storied apartment building with a fire escape zigzagging between the dripping window air conditioners jutting from the face of the building. At the base, two heavy full-window doors. One of them requiring a key to get into the apartment building above, the other a closed down cash-for-gold shop. However, with the lights off on the other side of that window, it acts as a perfect reflective surface to the rustic gem directly behind you.

As the voice on the other end of the phone continues to go on ad nauseam, you turn from the ghostly image in the glass to stare now at the building behind you. With it's charming curb appeal, you immediately find yourself being drawn nearer to it. Your voice trailing off as you inform your caller that you'll call them right back and slip your phone into your pocket. Looking both ways before crossing between the cars lined up on either side of the street, you make your way to stand directly in front of the door to the small shop.

Given the pawn shop across the street, you begin to question if the "Open" sign on the door is legit, but your dominate hand reaches out to grip the cylindrical handle and pulling the door open and stepping inside as the small bell attached above the door jingles. Immediately you are hit with a perfect temperature air scented lightly with the aroma of freshly pressed coffee. Scanning the room from right to left, then left to right you realize that while in operation, no one seems to be tending the shop at the moment.

"Hello?" you sound off, leaving your hand on the door as you lean in. Everything telling you it's okay to proceed and continue to explore, sating your curiosity. Releasing the door, the door giving a second jingle as it is pulled closed behind you. To your immediate left you see a series of hooks on the wall, so you begin to take off your light jacket and hang it up while admiring the art hanging above, done in the skilled hand of a local artist.

After a quick study, you turn to your right and continue to go around the perimeter of the building, the sound of a faint thunderstorm overhead catching your ear. "But it didn't look like it was going to rain," you think as you take a few steps forward and look out the window. Through it you see the sky has turned gray and water running down the windows.

"Seems I got inside just in time then," you say with a bit of a chuckle, folding your arms beginning your stroll around the shop once more. Ninety-degrees from the door, you find yourself walking up a couple steps to stand on what appears to be a small performance stage with a few colored back lights and a microphone. From this mountain top view of the place, you can see a dozen small tables in front of you, as well as a few love seats and beanbag chairs lining the perimeter of the wooden floor.

Stepping up to the microphone, you look around nervously, because you've always wanted to talk into a microphone and this might very well be your last chance. "Hello," you say in a near mumble just in case the shop owner is nearby. Unable to hear yourself, you repeat yourself a bit louder and this time your voice registers over the speakers. Your eyes light up with surprise as you cover your mouth and put your other hand over the microphone, preventing yourself from laughing into the device.

After regaining your composure, your eyes turn to a pair of doors to your left. Backing away from the mike, you turn and make a beeline between the tables and chairs to the first door, passing through the frame you can smell the mix of wood and paint. Beneath your feet is a carpeted room, but the carpet has been covered in drips and stripes of different colors of paint, which makes sense once you take note of the easels of half painted and covered canvas. The art that isn't mounted on the wall by nail is on the floor inside of a nice rack, waiting to be worked on, claimed or sold. Looking at each piece for several seconds, you realize you do not recognize any of these artists and assume they must be locals. Nodding with a slightly impressed smile, you step back out into the main part of the shop.

Still vacant, but the aroma of the coffee has certainly grown stronger. With a soft shrug of your shoulders you turn into the second room to find yourself standing in a small library. The smell of the paper as inviting as the coffee and paint previously. Walking the perimeter of the room, you run a finger over the spines of the books, taking note of titles and names, some classical, some new releases, others marked again in the 'local' section. Slipping one of the books off the shelf and reading the back cover and the insert, you hold it in your hands as you start to make your way out of the room, but stopping short. Another door within this room. Approaching it slowly with an outreached hand, you grip the handle and start to turn it just slightly before realizing it is locked.

Letting go of the door, you turn and make way back towards the main part of the shop again only to your astonishment to find a man standing there, as if he's always been there. Standing with a cup of coffee on a saucer and smiling at you as stand there a bit surprised.

"Hello, friend. Care for a drink and chat?" the man says as he steps towards the counter top between you and he. The counter running the full extent of the store opposite from the stage with soft, round swiveling stools. Placing the coffee down, he looks back up at you and with that same smile he says, "We've been waiting for you."

"You've been waiting for me?" you ask with a chuckle. "There's no one he-," you're cut off as you look and suddenly see people sitting in the chairs that were once vacant, some of them continuing with their conversations, others turning in their chairs to look and wave at you.

"Welcome to Cafe Rain."

(Special thanks to *kaydence for the store front icons.)
Post #1038888 Back to top ▲
7/21/2017
 
This is a story about you. Which is nice, because you've always wanted to hear a story about you.

This is a story about how you find yourself walking down the main street of your local small town or one nearby, window shopping as you go, your cellphone to your ear as a close relative or friend tells you the latest feel good story going on in their own life. While your heart is aglow for them, you find yourself getting more engrossed with each passing syllable that you somehow manage to find yourself a block in from the main street.

If you've never been down this block, and I'm most certain you haven't, you'd know that there is a tall storied apartment building with a fire escape zigzagging between the dripping window air conditioners jutting from the face of the building. At the base, two heavy full-window doors. One of them requiring a key to get into the apartment building above, the other a closed down cash-for-gold shop. However, with the lights off on the other side of that window, it acts as a perfect reflective surface to the rustic gem directly behind you.

As the voice on the other end of the phone continues to go on ad nauseam, you turn from the ghostly image in the glass to stare now at the building behind you. With it's charming curb appeal, you immediately find yourself being drawn nearer to it. Your voice trailing off as you inform your caller that you'll call them right back and slip your phone into your pocket. Looking both ways before crossing between the cars lined up on either side of the street, you make your way to stand directly in front of the door to the small shop.

Given the pawn shop across the street, you begin to question if the "Open" sign on the door is legit, but your dominate hand reaches out to grip the cylindrical handle and pulling the door open and stepping inside as the small bell attached above the door jingles. Immediately you are hit with a perfect temperature air scented lightly with the aroma of freshly pressed coffee. Scanning the room from right to left, then left to right you realize that while in operation, no one seems to be tending the shop at the moment.

"Hello?" you sound off, leaving your hand on the door as you lean in. Everything telling you it's okay to proceed and continue to explore, sating your curiosity. Releasing the door, the door giving a second jingle as it is pulled closed behind you. To your immediate left you see a series of hooks on the wall, so you begin to take off your light jacket and hang it up while admiring the art hanging above, done in the skilled hand of a local artist.

After a quick study, you turn to your right and continue to go around the perimeter of the building, the sound of a faint thunderstorm overhead catching your ear. "But it didn't look like it was going to rain," you think as you take a few steps forward and look out the window. Through it you see the sky has turned gray and water running down the windows.

"Seems I got inside just in time then," you say with a bit of a chuckle, folding your arms beginning your stroll around the shop once more. Ninety-degrees from the door, you find yourself walking up a couple steps to stand on what appears to be a small performance stage with a few colored back lights and a microphone. From this mountain top view of the place, you can see a dozen small tables in front of you, as well as a few love seats and beanbag chairs lining the perimeter of the wooden floor.

Stepping up to the microphone, you look around nervously, because you've always wanted to talk into a microphone and this might very well be your last chance. "Hello," you say in a near mumble just in case the shop owner is nearby. Unable to hear yourself, you repeat yourself a bit louder and this time your voice registers over the speakers. Your eyes light up with surprise as you cover your mouth and put your other hand over the microphone, preventing yourself from laughing into the device.

After regaining your composure, your eyes turn to a pair of doors to your left. Backing away from the mike, you turn and make a beeline between the tables and chairs to the first door, passing through the frame you can smell the mix of wood and paint. Beneath your feet is a carpeted room, but the carpet has been covered in drips and stripes of different colors of paint, which makes sense once you take note of the easels of half painted and covered canvas. The art that isn't mounted on the wall by nail is on the floor inside of a nice rack, waiting to be worked on, claimed or sold. Looking at each piece for several seconds, you realize you do not recognize any of these artists and assume they must be locals. Nodding with a slightly impressed smile, you step back out into the main part of the shop.

Still vacant, but the aroma of the coffee has certainly grown stronger. With a soft shrug of your shoulders you turn into the second room to find yourself standing in a small library. The smell of the paper as inviting as the coffee and paint previously. Walking the perimeter of the room, you run a finger over the spines of the books, taking note of titles and names, some classical, some new releases, others marked again in the 'local' section. Slipping one of the books off the shelf and reading the back cover and the insert, you hold it in your hands as you start to make your way out of the room, but stopping short. Another door within this room. Approaching it slowly with an outreached hand, you grip the handle and start to turn it just slightly before realizing it is locked.

Letting go of the door, you turn and make way back towards the main part of the shop again only to your astonishment to find a man standing there, as if he's always been there. Standing with a cup of coffee on a saucer and smiling at you as stand there a bit surprised.

"Hello, friend. Care for a drink and chat?" the man says as he steps towards the counter top between you and he. The counter running the full extent of the store opposite from the stage with soft, round swiveling stools. Placing the coffee down, he looks back up at you and with that same smile he says, "We've been waiting for you."

"You've been waiting for me?" you ask with a chuckle. "There's no one he-," you're cut off as you look and suddenly see people sitting in the chairs that were once vacant, some of them continuing with their conversations, others turning in their chairs to look and wave at you.

"Welcome to Cafe Rain."

(Special thanks to *kaydence for the store front icons.)
Post #1038888
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