Body Graffiti

A green patch over a red coat tucked into brown corduroys and rain boots scooted across the street. Light snow drifted down like soft sifting of powdered sugar for a confection. The bell pealed when he shut the door. The owner brushed by the young man.

“Liz’, lock up!” Kline Corr barked. “Merry Christmas!” he mentioned softly and exited.

“She kicked you out?” Bethany Beach, Delaware native Lizza Paul suggested as she poured a cup of cappuccino. She pushed it towards him. Her purple apron and black visor belied her blonde and black hair and a number of tattoos on her body. Her hazel eyes peered into the corduroyed Cobain Gett’s eyes.

“On Christmas Eve….” Gett sighed. His palms wrapped around the warm cup.

“I told you she was going to do it.”

“You did.”

“You’re not going to get any sympathy from me other than that cup of espresso. When I’m right, I’m right.”

Gett scoffed. Lizza got up and walked to the front. She turned the sign to “We’re Closed.”

“Simon, play jazzy music,” She commanded.

Gett observed her like a planet in the solar system, curious and full of wonder.

“C’mon. Get over here Coby,” She beckoned.

He sipped some more and set down his cup.

He met her in the middle of the coffee shop.

She interlocked her fingers around Gett’s neck. “I’ve told you a thousand times she was going to do this,” she said in a sing-song way.

The lights around them gleamed as the hiss from the automatic espresso machine emitted quietly through the music.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Gett said.

Lizza’s face broke up and her brow furrowed.

“Oh, now you want to kiss me? Mr. ‘I don’t do romance with women who have body graffiti,’” she remarked and kissed him.