To You

A short story I had in mind for some time now that fit the bill of the Pulp Fiction contest perfectly.

She came in and out of the coffee shop starting in the spring. Her cerulean hair was hard to miss, and her fair skin looked as soft as it felt. It was these small details that I cherished more than anything in the few moments we would spend talking about our writing. Rather, the moments we spent talking about mine. She never dared speak about hers, just silently gripping her coffee cup between both hands, sipping every so often, listening intently. It wasn’t long until she started to fade away. By summer she started coming for coffee less, and her interest in me began to dwindle, let alone my stories. She would buy a coffee, wave, and walk away. Less and less, to where she only came once a week in the autumn, and she didn’t even pretend to care that I was there. For the last time, in the middle of winter, she got a coffee and simply told me she was moving. She gave me a weak smile and said she enjoyed my company, and walked out of the coffee shop - my life - for the last time. I never even got her name.

Reviews

[Jennifer E. Whalen]

Wow...that was deep. Excellently written. I could feel the writer's (your) feelings, I've been there, too--not in the same way, but I can understand the moment.