Coffee in the Afternoon: a Short Story

About 4300 words.

© 2015 Christopher Chinchilla. All rights reserved.

“Coffee in the Afternoon” first published in Fabula Argentea Magazine, October 2014

The blonde woman in the far corner of the café was not the reason he was here, but he wished she were. Her white button-up shirt was open wide at the collar and golden hair fell over her shoulders as she leaned forward, reading the books sprawled open on her table, holding a coffee in one hand and a pen in the other. A blonde curl dangled over her black square-framed glasses as she read. Johnny wished she was the reason he was here.

He hadn’t realized he’d been watching her, his thumb and fingers drumming absently on the café table at which he sat holding a mug of coffee. He knew he was staring after he’d thought she wasn’t the reason and hastily jerked away, splashing a bit of hot coffee over the brim onto the back of his hand. A few drops soaked into the paper of the large, white envelope resting face-down on the table. “Dammit,” he ejaculated, and, reaching for a napkin to clean himself up, he saw Jessica standing at the café entrance, a thin golden crucifix at her throat, looking down at him with her dark eyebrows raised.

Johnny shifted in his chair. With a soiled, crumpled tissue in his fingers, he stood shakily and gestured his wife toward him.

Jessica approached his table in the center of the quiet café. She was dressed stiffly in a blouse and skirt; the severity of her tightly-bundled brunette hair and her thin, straight lips vibrated in her strict movements; he waited as she slung her purse straps over the back of the chair across from him and glided into the seat. “You’ve grown your hair out,” she said tersely.

He reached both hands up to the beanie on his head, the crumpled napkin still in the fingers of one hand, and flattened the beanie down over the brown, curling locks protruding from under it. Stuttering a little, he replied, “Oh. Oh, w-well. After so many years of keeping it down—I thought I’d let it fly.” Over her shoulder, he noticed the evening sun disappearing behind the post office building across the street. A mail carrier stood at the bottom of the flag pole, lowering the flag slowly, letting the rope glide through his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, Johnny saw the blonde woman with the books. She was gazing up now, her chin raised, two fingers brushing her cheek. She was watching the flag come down. Johnny felt Jessica’s eyes, hot and black, and looked back to her. “I—I thought—I’d let it fly.”

Jessica looked down at her lap, smoothed her skirt over her thighs, and looked back up. “I hadn’t realized it had been so long. You’ve been away a while. We’ve missed you. You know that.”

“I—had some questions,” said Johnny. “Had some answers to find.”

“Away from me?” she asked.

“Away from the family, yes,” he answered, his grip tightening over the soiled napkin. He fiddled with it for a few seconds, then finally set it aside, his fingers slightly sticky. The blonde had returned to reading her books.

Jessica let her gaze fall to the porcelain mug on the table, next to the coffee-splattered envelope lying there, which she paid no mind. He felt tingles on the back of his hand where the coffee had splashed. She looked back at him. “Coffee in the afternoon?” she asked disapprovingly. “It gives you jitters.”

“I’m tired,” he answered feebly, his fingers jittering at the smooth handle. It was still hot and he hadn’t sipped it yet. He was still tired. The mail carrier across the street had the flag draped over his right shoulder and was ambling toward the door of the post office. Behind the post office in the direction he walked, the courthouse rose in the distance. Johnny pressed his jittery fingers onto the smooth surface of the envelope in front of him and stroked it softly, staring at the courthouse.

“So,” said Jessica, pulling his gaze to her, “I won’t grant you the divorce you requested.”

He stiffened, his breath catching in his chest. He fought to speak, but the words came out like splashes of coffee from a shaking mug. “Jessica, I’m—not trying—to upset—you—”

“This is your place for solitude, isn’t it?” she interrupted him. Her eyes bounced around the café in which they sat, taking in the soft mahogany tables and earthy green ficus trees, the dark oranges and browns coating the wide walls, decorated with paintings of landscapes and coffee beans and famous dead writers. A large mirror hung on the wall to her right, framing the two of them in its huge border, Jessica’s pale, severe countenance and suited body across from his stubbled, sun-kissed face, his body clothed in a second-hand jacket and jeans. Jessica eyed the patrons too—the newcomer murmuring for her coffee at the counter, the latecomer joining a group of smiling teenagers seated under the mirror, the regular whose fingers tap-danced over his laptop’s keyboard. Jessica looked at him and said with a curled lip, “This is your church now, isn’t it?”

Johnny noticed that Jessica hadn’t turned to see the blonde in the corner.

He shifted in the chair, wondered if his coffee had cooled, but it was yet too hot. “It’s—” he started, fumbling for the words rattling in his brain, pounding in his heart, “It’s a—a place that’s quiet. These people—don’t know each other. I’m not—tied to them. But I can—share this with them,” he said, encompassing the café with a steady gaze around. “It’s just a café, I know—but I can be with people, without—without them being—without having to—to give myself to them.” The liquid in his mug was dark, black, still. He regarded it solemnly and finished, “We can do our own thing, without having to consider each other. It’s peaceful here.”

“Selfish,” Jessica muttered. Johnny looked up. Her arms and legs were crossed, her thin chest very still under her severe gaze. “This is why you want your divorce, so you don’t have to consider me, your wife.” His eyes flicked over to the blonde. She was lounging in her chair, forgetting the books again and gazing out of the wide window next to her, towards the orange sun in the purpling sky. Sprawling, she had a hand at her mouth while the other lay on her jeans-covered thigh, one leg bent up and the other stretched out languidly. Her chest heaved deeply under her white shirt as she watched the sun slip behind the brown stone of the distant courthouse. “You vowed to love me and give yourself up to me,” Jessica said sharply.

Suddenly, the blonde looked at him.

She was smiling, or smirking. But he couldn’t tell if it was for him, or if the smirk had already been on her pink lips before this. But the blonde was looking at him, amused.

“Look at me, Johnny,” Jessica said. His eyes snapped back to hers. “Love me and give yourself up to me, Johnny,” she repeated. “Do you remember that? The family’s been asking after you, Johnny. They wonder where you’ve been. They speculate. They interrogate me. We’re tied together, that’s what these mean—” she reached for his left hand with hers and jerked it up in her grip. On a finger of her hand was a sparkling diamond ring. On the fingers of his hand was the vibrant kiss of a sun tan, smooth and unblemished. There was no mark of the thing left.

When she saw this, Jessica’s eyes went wide, her mouth agape. “So,” she breathed airily, “it has been a long time.” She sat back slowly in her chair, her cold hand dropping from his warm fingers, his hand falling slowly to the table. “Father will be disappointed,” she said. Then an icy tone returned to her voice. “You need to come back, Johnny. The family can fix you. This damaged heart, this lack of faith—we can restore it. There are some things that are closed to the power of man’s reason, to what he can do on his own. You can’t solve this yourself.”

Johnny bit the inside of his lip as she spoke. He hadn’t heard words like this in the six months since he’d left. Now, they clamped his chest tight. He felt as if the pain in his lip was the only thing connecting him to life—the physical pain was preferable to the deathlike fear gripping his heart. The beginnings of a tear liquefied in the corner of one of his eyes. He was shaking. He muttered in a trembling voice, “Until you, I never felt flawed.”

Silence. “Until me, Johnny?” she answered fiercely. “You were always flawed. We’re all flawed. I was your savior—you’re lucky that I was the one on the other side of the door when we met, willing to take you under my wing and introduce you to Father. The only thing you’ve done to save yourself was to open the door at our knock that day. And now you think you were fine just the way you were, behind that door, by yourself.”

He dabbed a dry portion of the soiled napkin at the corner of his eye, meeting her gaze again. “I shouldn’t have opened the door,” he admitted quietly, his voice steadying. “I should have left it shut—then I would have figured out that nothing was closed to me. Eventually. Would’ve seen that the world isn’t so evil. Everywhere you look—everywhere you look—it’s evil. But I’ve looked now. No, it’s not. It’s so good.”

She glared at him after this, an inquisitive air curving her dark eyebrows. She said, “What have you been doing these six months, Johnny? With whom have you been doing it?”

“Writing,” he answered, his chest still tight. “Writing,” he repeated. “Like I always wanted.”

“You never wanted it. You wanted to become a teacher. I remember the night.”

“I didn’t speak the night we sat with Father,” Johnny said abruptly. Her eyes flashed. He breathed gently, lowered his voice. “I didn’t—speak that night. We sat with the family and—and Father decided that my love for words should be my gift—for the family. I was supposed to read that—damned book cover-to-cover and then turn it into lectures for the family—tell them what was wrong with them and the evil world and how Father would make it right—”

He stopped. Jessica’s eyes had grown cold. A thin smile slipped over her mouth. In a long drawl, she hissed, “That’s Father’s job. To decide for us. Do you think you can decide the course of your life without at least his guidance?”

Johnny gulped slowly. His mouth was dry. A young man at the counter called out a coffee and a grinning teenager came and got it.

“Listen to you, Johnny,” Jessica said, draping her arm over the back of her chair and smirking. “You can’t even speak to me clearly.” He let her gaze hold him, feeling heavy in his chest, suddenly cautious. He looked down at the envelope as she continued casually, “Father thinks there’s someone else.” His eyes darted to the blonde. She wasn’t looking at him; she was studying. Had she ever been looking at him? His gaze slipped back to the envelope. Jessica continued, “He thinks you couldn’t really do this on your own. Someone had to be there, loving this little new-you. I was certain there wasn’t. There was only writing, and this place,” she indicated the café, “and wherever you’ve been living. Rented a room, did you?” She sneered. “How could you even pay for it?”

“A guest house,” he said, low. He reached into his coat and, shaking, pulled an item from it. “With this.” He held a pen straight up in the air between them, solid, black, metallic.

Jessica let her eyes rest on it. He saw movement over her shoulder. The blonde was gazing at it, too. He held his breath. “Soooo,” Jessica exhaled. They locked eyes again. “So, my—my. You’ve been writing.” Her gaze was steady, but he thought he saw her pupils shaking. Slowly, he pulled the pen back toward him, but stopped short, letting it linger in the air for a moment—letting the blonde see it a moment longer—then he tucked it away inside his coat pocket. Jessica said, distantly, “Whose name— Have you been using your name, my name?”

“No,” he answered at once. “A pen name. My mother’s name, her first name.”

Jessica raised her chin slightly. “Time away, a place to live, work to do,” she said slowly— “You really expect to have this divorce.”

“I’m—” He paused, exhaled shortly. “I’m demanding it,” he stated.

“You’re disobeying Father,” she said coldly.

“He’s no longer my father,” he said hotly.

Johnny let his eyes dance toward the blonde, hoping to see her staring…but she was studying her books, yawning languidly with her face in her palm, paying him no mind, leisurely turning a page.

Jessica’s eyes hadn’t left his; she made no movement to look away. “I won’t grant this divorce. You’re going to Father and you’ll beg on your knees for his forgiveness, Johnny. That’s what a real man does, he gets on his knees. This boy you’ve become is ridiculous.”

He gripped his mug tightly. The coffee was still hot; no, it was warm; the heat was in his tightening grip. He laid his other hand flat against the envelope, pressing down hard. The heat of his hand rose into his chest. He met Jessica’s stare with his own. Steadfastly, he stated,

“I’m taking Lily.”

If Jessica had looked angry before this, she was now furious. The red flecks in her brown eyes burned. Her cheeks paled. He saw that the hand draped over her chair gripped the wood. Steadily, she began tapping a manicured fingernail on the tabletop. She said, tightly, quietly, “Like. Hell. You. Are.”

“I am—taking Lily,” he responded, gripping his coffee mug, bracing under her glare.

“Lily belongs to us,” Jessica said, not moving except her lips. “She belongs to the family. If you leave us, I’m not letting you take her with you.”

Behind Jessica, the sun had nearly set. Purple hues were oppressing the last vestiges of the orange afternoon. The courthouse had lit up from its base in the distance, gleaming despite the coming darkness. The blonde, he saw, shocked—she was standing, leaning a shoulder against the window, her fingers in her pockets. Her head was down, kicking listlessly at the café floor with her toes…until her eyes rolled to meet his, stealthily. She saw him looking and raised her face up and away from his, gazing toward the courthouse. Johnny pulled the crumpled napkin back into his fingers, and then he looked at Jessica.

“I want her to choose,” he said. “Lily can choose.”

“It’s not for her to choose,” Jessica retorted quickly, “when there is only one right way.”

“Then let her see the wrong ways,” Johnny answered. He was breathless. “I’ll show her all these wrong things with the world, and when she sees that they’re wrong, you can blame me. Blame me for it. I’ll hold the weight of it.”

The blonde turned smoothly and sat down, flipping gently through the pages of a large textbook that was open before her.

“We’ve already been through this with the Judge,” Jessica said, looking upward. “We decided this the day she was born.”

“No,” he said, “we haven’t been to see a judge. But we’re going.”

Swiftly, Johnny opened the flap of the thick envelope on the table and pulled from it one heavy sheet of paper. “Yours is in the post,” he stated, sliding the sheet in front of her. A court date was stamped in the corner. She did not look at it.

“Who’s advocating for you?” Jessica asked, looking downward.

“I’ll be my own advocate,” he responded, his gaze level.

Suddenly, Jessica shot forward, a fist landing on the piece of paper he’d slid to her, as she sputtered, “You haven’t been with her in six months, Johnny. You left the family and you left her in our care. You don’t get to walk back in and take her.” She sat straight. “You don’t know her anymore. She’s become deeply spiritual. She’s corresponding with an important church, reading their materials, contributing prolifically. She’s not the audacious little girl you so wanted her to be, flouting rules and running through the mud, godless except for you, godless like you. She’s hardly outside anymore. She’s pious. You should see how she locks herself in her room and reads and writes. The envelopes she gets and the responses she sends to the Holy Church of St. John’s, she’s never been as righteous as she is now—”

Slowly—slowly, because he thought that if he moved faster, his shaking hand would topple the coffee mug over the side of the table—slowly, he turned over the thick, white, coffee-stained envelope. Blazing up from its clean face was a shimmering, gold-embossed crucifix. Next to it, above an address, were the bold words that read, The Holy Church of St. John’s.

Jessica’s eyes lingered heavily on the face of the envelope, longer than it was needed to read the writing. In the upper left corner of its face there read Jessica’s home address, under the name Lily Flannery, scrawled in green, playful cursive.

Jessica’s gaze hadn’t moved. Johnny reached forward, steadily, and opened the envelope again, pulling from it the bulk of its contents. He flipped the thick stack of white pages over. At the top was a story title, and below it the words by Johnny Alice.

Scribbled across the thin top sheet, in the margins and between the lines, were the playfully cursive green markings that defined Lily’s name on the face of the envelope. This is so funny! said a scribble. Great set-up! said another. Cut the exposition, daddy… said another. There were dozens more. Through the thin sheet of paper, the underlying sheets could be discerned, with heavy green scrawls dancing around the thin, strict double-spaced text.

Jessica was leaning in so close that Johnny felt he need only whisper… “This is my latest story, Jessica,” he breathed. “I have been writing. And I’ve been doing it with Lily.”

Slowly, she raised her pale, tight face to his tanned, blushing cheeks. She spoke severely. “You have not been with us. This isn’t what she wants.”

The envelope was flat now, its bulk having been removed. But as the last bit of orange glow sidled amiably out of sight in the now-purple sky outside, Johnny reached into the envelope one last time and pulled from it the last item, sliding the single sheet of paper filled with green cursive writing in front of Jessica.


I’m stifled here. Everyone is so interested in me and everything I do. And with all this mad attention, I don’t know who “I” am supposed to be! Get me out of it. Tell Mom—tell Jessica—I want out. She won’t believe me. Tell her I want to be with you. I don’t care how you tell her, just make her know it. Make her see what’s real, just once.

Your Little Angel,

Lilith Alice

Jessica did not move. With her head bent before him over the paper, she said gratingly, “She has to trust me.” She raised her face to his. “What can she know at her age? She needs to have faith,” she avowed, biting her tongue between her teeth.

“I’m,” he said, resolute, “taking Lily.”

“Come try it.” She sat up strictly. “I’m sitting in your place. I have the family, our congregation, our Father with me, everyone who knows what she needs far better than you do, Saint Johnny. What do you have?”

Johnny paused, his chest tightening—but it was not fear; it felt like a damning sensation, like he was the one damning her, and that that power belonged to him, to anyone who dared to use it.

He gripped his mug and lifted it to his lips, finally sipping his coffee. Over the brim, the blonde’s eyes met his. The coffee was warm, black, and bold. What did he have? Jessica had asked.

He set the mug down lightly on Lily’s letter.

“Righteousness,” he answered.

In a flash of fury, Jessica stood up so hard that her chair went skidding behind her. She seized the porcelain mug from his hand and raised it high over her head, then sent it shooting to the floor of the café, shattering it into dozens of pieces and exploding coffee in every direction.

The café went silent as John Mayer’s Stop This Train drifted dreamily through the air. The teenagers, the baristas, the regulars, and the stoppers-by all rested their wide eyes on Jessica, shocked. The blonde’s eyes were on Johnny; she was smiling.

“M-ma’am—m-miss,” a young man’s voice mumbled. The shuffle of the patrons rejoined the soft musings filling the air. “M-miss,” said the young barista, “are you al-lright, miss?” The boy had a brush and dustpan in one hand and a towel in the other, setting to work at their feet.

Jessica’s cold eyes were spikes aimed at his heart. In a smooth motion, she pulled her purse from the chair and lifted the straps over her shoulder. “Mmmm, Johnny,” she said silkily. “Johnny, Hell hath no fury like that of a woman scorned.”

Feeling his heart pounding in his chest, he inhaled deeply, and bowed his head to her in acceptance.

Jessica spun sharply on her raised heels and sped out of the café, into the coming night outside.

Johnny put a hand on the shaking shoulder of the boy before him. “It’s all right, son,” he said. The teenagers sitting beneath the wide mirror laughed furtively, murmuring comments about that crazy… Coffee beans ground behind him at the counter. The café resumed its faint hum. Where was she?

The blonde sat at her table adjusting her glasses, reading lazily, smiling and not looking at him. He fiddled with the soiled napkin again, gripped it in his fingers, and stood up quickly.

“Excuse me,” he said nervously as he approached her. The blonde raised her green eyes up to his face. “May I…” Johnny paused. The green eyes were clear, her porcelain cheeks soft and blushing from warmth, her pink lips gentle and full. His heart slowed, and he said in a deep, steady exhale, “May I spend the next few moments with you?”

She laughed out loud. “Well,” she said, chuckling, “I’ll take boldness like that as well as I’ll take a coffee in the afternoon.” She stretched her arms out to both sides and her chest heaved. “And right now,” she yawned, “I need one.” Then she added, “Who is she?” nodding to the table from which he’d come.

He turned. Back at his table, the barista had finished cleaning and stood up. Jessica’s presence was gone now. The barista winked at Johnny. Johnny grasped that the young man had heard their conversation; he’d get their coffees. Johnny turned back to the blonde and her question about Jessica. Who is she? “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“Then it doesn’t.”

“You’re a scientist?” he asked. The books strewn before her were calculus and astronomy, chemistry and biology.

She laughed. “I’m a student of science. ‘Scientist’ is still a ways off.”

“You were listening,” he said abruptly.

“Studying,” she responded, winking.



“I can’t,” he answered. “My head’s… It’s spinning. I’m thinking of— Hell, you know it. I’m thinking of…”

“Lily,” she breathed. “I know it.”

The barista placed two coffees on the table. “Please enjoy!” he said brightly, then bowed out.

Quietly, staring into the mug, Johnny said, “She’s going to have a hard time of it.”

“Did you know that?” the blonde asked.

He nodded. “We both knew it.” She said nothing. “It’s as if…” He paused, shuddering. “As if my whole world has stopped.”

She was still as she looked up at him. “Well,” she sighed, “they may try to stop it, try their damnedest to get you to stop it…and yet it moves. The world moves.”

“Can I…” He halted, taken aback at the electricity that had just jumped inside him. For the first time that afternoon, Johnny smiled. “Can I take you out for a drink?”

The blonde smiled too. Suddenly, she slammed her books shut, shaking the table and spilling a few drops of the hot coffee over the back of her hand. He reached out with the soiled napkin and wiped her clean. She stood up before him, a head shorter than he. Laughing, she answered, “No! I’m taking you for one.” Johnny beamed.

They split, retrieved their books and papers from their tables, each left two dollars on her table for the coffees, and they met at the café door, waving goodbye to the barista who was smiling after them.

Outside, night had come. The lights of the post office and courthouse blazed through it. “You know,” the blonde said at his side as he opened the door for her, “Heaven hath no glory like a self-righteous man.”

A little shocked, he simply looked at her and asked, “What makes you say that?”

She laughed and brushed his stubbled chin as she walked through the door. “Just the energy from an afternoon coffee,” she said. Johnny smiled, knowing she had reason enough.

Thanks for reading. 


What to Do When You Don’t Have Time to Write

Work, family, our own bad habits—they all get in the way of our writing. Not much we can do about it, eh? Sure there is. Here are 6 obstacles and ways to get around them.

  1. You only have one day a week to write, maybe just a few hours on Saturday before the kids wake up. The rest of the week, you’re creatively frustrated. Have a quickie! Next writing session, jot down some things about your current story that you’d like to work on, such as a character sketch or upcoming scene. Then, throughout the week at lunch, spend 15 minutes working on them. You don’t have to finish them, just work on them. Put pen to paper and get a few words out. Hugh Howey, author of Wool, wrote his novel before work and at lunch while working as a bookseller. Little by little!
  2. Family won’t give you quiet time. From dawn to dusk, you’re either at work or with family. You ask for quiet time, but they can’t leave you alone. Attend a writing group. It’s easier for family when they know it’s a scheduled meeting outside the home. Plus, you’ll surround yourself with other writers—a weekly dose of encouragement! Find a group on Google or set up your own, like mine on Meetup.
  3. You need more time. A once-a-week group is good, but you need that daily dose and can’t get it at home. Run away. Pick a local coffee shop and head there before or after work. Straight there, like it’s part of your workday. Your turn to cook dinner? Next grocery trip, get some pre-dinner snacks the family can munch while they wait for you.
  4. You have the time, but you’re tired. Manual labor or long hours at a desk drain your creative energy. Change your diet. Eat breakfast (even if just a bagel). Swap fries for apple slices at most fast food joints. Better yet, skip Mickey-D’s and head to Subway—go easy on the cheese and sauce and load up on the veggies! Also, skip that extra cup of coffee and drink more water. It keeps you awake, staves off headaches, and flushes toxins from your system. Still tired? Take a short walk after work, before your writing session, to boost your metabolism and wake up your brain.
  5. You cut sleep for writing time. Power down. Get your 8 hours. How creative can you be if you’re always tired? If your schedule is really that packed, try quickies for a while, then add a writing group. Change your diet. Soon, you might find a morning or evening to run away, and with any luck, you’ll make the time for writing that you deserve.
  6. TV and social media suck up your time. Seriously? Okay, then I’ll repeat my advice to attend a writing group. Being around fellow writers at a scheduled writing session gets you away from TV and lets you detach from social media, while still getting a social fix. Also, the weekly meeting will encourage you to write more between sessions.

My favorite author, Ayn Rand, escaped Soviet Russia and got to Hollywood. There, she worked long hours in a costuming department. After work, she went home and wrote until she was so tired she had to sleep. But she finished her novel, We the Living, and got it published. There’s dozens of obstacles in the way of our creative writing—and just as many ways around them. These tips are my solutions to obstacles I’ve encountered and overcome. If your obstacle isn’t on the list, remember: you’re creative! The solution’s out there, and, just like your protagonist, you gotta find it. Happy writing!