The Coffee Bar (story by Vanna Vechian*)

O, how ever did I get stuck in the life I have...? Hush! Don't you whinge, woman!

I need a drug.

Coffee! Coffee!

I love to drink, but it is too early to do so, you know. It really is. I have to be careful.

I have not left the house today, nor seen anyone here. Again. None of my friends were interested or able to meet, sadly. That is: the few that don't have careers. I don't. My dear husband is away again. Should be back tomorrow, or the day after, I don't remember.

Of course I have a dynamite Italian coffeemaker at home, but I won't have the coffee alone. I need contact, if only to see warm living bodies. I dress for the occasion. A hat, a suit, earrings. A lady. Femme fatale. I want to be noticed.

I let the taxi drop me off just some place we happened to pass. 'Stop! Driver, stop!' It seems like a nice little establishment. Old shop front, two large windows, a door in the middle, a few scattered clients and a waiter. And a pianist, I notice as I enter, who plays French salon music – nostalgic, with the restrained energy of a tired dance master. The place is intimate. Nice. The smell of coffee is heavy, but just right for me.

But the waiter! He is ... He is a star. God! 'Yes, yes, a coffee please. Make it strong. Wait! Potent. And sweet.'

How can he refuse? I noticed he noticed me. It does take a minute or two before he comes back to me. Other clients present themselves at the till and he takes their pay. Only one other person remains, besides us and our friend the pianist - someone that has sat there scribbling all the while with intense concentration. A writer? He could be writing about me, for all I know. He has thrown me one single, but piercing and extended glance.

My waiter returns with the coffee. And a pastry. 'Courtesy of the business, madam!' And another coffee. 'I will join you, if you don't mind. I feel you won't.' The cheek! Yet I don't. Mind. Far from it. I keep my cool and smile. 'You are a cheek, young man. That is all I will say. Now then. Talk to me.' I will not repeat what he tells me. Only that he compares me to Anna Karenina, had she lived a little longer. Hardly a direct insult, as she died young. Should I mind that he finds me tragic? As long as he finds me attractive. He is amusing.

Is it he or the smell of coffee that seduces me? The writer remains in his corner and the pianist plays on as my waiter turns the 'Open' sign over to 'Closed.' To 'Open' on our side.

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I stretch out luxuriously and naked and truly satisfied and at ease on his bed in his room. His room is right above the café. The Venetian blinds filter the light. His smell remains, mixed with the masculine smell of coffee. So does the sound of his music, dance music of faded days.

I feel his seed drip down my loins.

He has treated me like the queen I am. Not as a servant, but as the young king he is. The homage is all the greater.

The queen dresses in front of the windows. Languidly, without haste, savouring the moment, deeply inhaling the scent of coffee.

She descends the stairs and renters the café. With a nod to the king, she strides through and leaves. Her yellow carriage is waiting.

copyright 2009 Vanna Vechian
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* I asked my old partner-in-crime, Vanna Vechian, to write a "micro-story" based on these two new coffee paintings. I think she came through splendidly, don't you?

You can read more of Vanna's tales at her very own website: Vanna Vechian's Erotic Fiction .

As for the paintings, they are done in coffee and acrylic on paper, silk and velvet, with fur, coffee beans and glass beads.