The Island Of Lost Dreams

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The plastic, yellow lights flicker.

Eerie silence is alive.

14 linoleum tables cast a juggernaut of shadows that glimmer.

And the world becomes a lie.

I observe from behind the cashier of the Island Of Lost Dreams- free coffee refills for all willing to purchase seven. The cafe is completely and utterly devoid of all human life, but it comes as no surprise, the Island of Lost Dreams can only be stumbled upon by the truly broken, or the truly lost...literally.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Thrice, I tap my black ball point pen on the stainless steel counter. Staring idly at the menial stanza I had drawled into my arm earlier, with the pen. Today is one of those days, the ones where I almost wish I had more than one customer every 2 hours. Bored, I check the cheap clock hanging precariously on the wall opposite me. 11:30pm, my shift ends at 1am. I sigh.

Drip. Tap. Drip.

The sounds of my tapping pen and the dripping coffee pot behind me, meld together in a crude sort of duet. Ha, more like a pattern. I just snorted at the sounds of a pen and a coffee pot, these late shifts will be the death of me.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

Finally my craziness is penetrated by the sound of a customer. I resist the urge to raise my head. There aren’t many rules that my mustard stained moustache manager employs, but this is one he insists is paramount. We, as in my colleagues and I, are not permitted to initiate a conversation with the customers. We are merely a part of the shadows, the scenery if you will. I know, a rather peculiar requirement, not to mention our friendliness, or lack thereof, can’t be good for business, but hey the boss pays and currently that’s all that matters.

“Hey, Hello?”

Finally, I raise my head and peer at this new novelty, but it in no way satisfies my curiosity. The man is tall, towering at least a foot above me- in hindsight I realize that’s not saying much considering my 5 foot 3 status- and he’s undeniably attractive, containing a full head of russet brown curls which has been thoroughly tousled- due to frustration or as a fashion statement I’m unsure- and high, sharp cheekbones, that cast shadows over his face. But these are attributes that I could find in any other person. I look past the first glance features and examine him closely, his face seems to be devoid of all emotion, but his ebony coloured eyes tell a different story. They hold an emotion that I have come to recognize rather intimately over the past couple of months. It resembles cigarette smoke, a remnant of something that was both addicting and killing you at the same time. I feel myself slightly relax before replying.

“Welcome. How may I help you?”

My tone is carefully reserved, yet not completely devoid of emotion, it’s something that’s pleasing to hear but easy to forget. I worked for hours on end to bring it to complete and utter perfection.

“I’m quite well, fine actually, thank you,”

He replies to a question I never asked, but I’m not surprised. Sometimes you need to repeat a lie just for you to retain your sanity. I remain silent.

“could I just have a cup of coffee? Thanks.”

I nod once, before turning and grabbing the pot of the warm brew that had been dripping just moments before. I snag a clean mug before gently pouring the dark elixir, careful not to spill a single drop. The man never specified the coffee he wanted, and I never asked, but I know he won’t complain. Despite the dingy aesthetic of the shop, the coffee here is exceptional. Take it from me, I hate all things caffeine, with the exception of chocolate of course, but even I find the taste of this particular brew intoxicating. I place the cup in front of him. He snags it before staggering to take a seat at linoleum table 6, it's placed adjacent to the large display window, allowing you to peer out at the heaps of trash that has accumulated across from the shop. During my many hours idling around here I've named all 14 tables, that one I’ve dubbed as the table for shattered hearts-dramatic no? My naming skills, although tacky, are always correct. I re-take my seat on the plastic stool and pretend to be engrossed on the workings of my pen, but really I’m just observing. For a solid 12 minutes the man stares solemnly at his cup, I observe his left hand, his ring finger shows a red band around it, displaying that it was once the home for a circular promise. Finally he takes a sip of the coffee, then another. He guzzles it in 30 seconds flat and is back for refills. Like every other customer he consumes exactly 8 cups. It is 12:31am when he departs, leaving behind a generous tip, and the salty sent of hidden tears. I watch his ebony eyes carefully, they are still broken. But by now he’s hyped on so much coffee he can finally think straight. I can almost guarantee that he’ll be back tomorrow-the heart ones always are- but this time he’ll talk.

It is 1am precisely when my blonde haired colleague comes in to take over the next shift, another one of the manager’s rules is to be exactly on time not a minute earlier nor later. We exchange a nod with each other as I head to the back of the shop. I enter through the wooden doors and carefully snag my jacket and messenger bag from a rickety wrought iron hook from a series of it's brethren nailed haphazardly to the wall to my right, before heading towards the record book. The book is a gigantic, rather distressed, looking journal. I've imagined that it was once a dark onyx and bounded with a glorious leather finish, but it's younger days were long before I was employed, and I've never bothered to ask any of the other employees. As I zip up my coat I grab my ballpoint pen and flip through the age stained pages until I reach a blank one. At the top I messily scribble the date before printing the number of customers that I had today-3. I list their defining features- a girl with frizzled hair and acne scars, a man with a mole just below his right eye and perfectly silvered hair, and finally the tall, slender man with ebony coloured eyes, before stating their suspected dispositions- frizzled haired woman; rebellion, mole-man; loneliness, tall man; broken heart. When I’m done I place the book back into it’s plastic holder on the wall before entering into the main part of the shop, the linoleum tables are still empty. Once again I nod once at my colleague before exiting through the cracked shop doors.

Ding. Ding. Ding

The bell rings behind me. The door swings shut.