She sits alone in the corner of the café, never speaking to anyone, never looking at anything besides her cup of tea, long since cold, or her piece of paper and pencil. Every so often, she scribbles a few words; more often, she erases. A few men walk up to her, hoping to get lucky, but she doesn't even hear them. Her blonde hair hidden beneath a black beret, the rest of her clothes also black. She is in mourning, but no one knows who or what she is mourning for.
The waitress watches her day after day, sitting in the same booth, ordering the same untouched drink. She stopped giving her the bill long ago, but she still paid every night when the café closed, always leaving a tip. When she serves the drink, she gets closer than anyone else, sees the empty look in her eyes. Not the look of drugs - the waitress had seen enough of that to know that was not the look of addiction. It was the look of loss, of lost love.
She set down the tea as usual, but this time glimpses at the paper, and catches a couple lines.
She doesn't look, she doesn't see
Opens up for nobody
The only lines on the paper, the only ones left after three months of sitting, writing.
Every day, the waitress sets the tea on the table, and sneaks a peek at the paper. Either the woman doesn't notice, or doesn't care. There is always a change every day. One day, a new line, the next it is erased. Slowly, the lines stay, one at a time. They are burned into the waitress' memory.
Figures out, she figures out
For two weeks, there is a spark of life in the eyes, just a tiny spark, but it dies as swiftly as it comes.
Never lies, she can't decide
One day, she storms out, agitated by something no one else sees or knows. She does not come back until the next day. She comes back just as before; walks in, goes directly to her booth, orders a tea, her only words to the waitress or anyone else, and stares at everything and nothing.
Everything short of suicide
Never hurts, nearly works
Once in a great while, she will take a sip of her tea, never noticing if it is cold. The regulars know she never orders food. No one knows when or where she eats. She is only seen inside the café. Some kindhearted soul once tried to follow her home, but she disappeared into the crowd as soon as she exited. It would seem easy to pick her out, dressed all in black, her silver eyes and gold hair unmistakable in the café but somehow invisible in the crowd.
A part of you that will never show
Every so often, she'll start at the smallest noise. A cup on a saucer, or a fork on a plate. Then she'll go back to staring at her table.
You're the only one that will ever know
The regulars wonder what goes on in her mind, what she remembers. There is no indication of who she is or where she came from.
Take it back where it all began
They don't know, but she thinks of him. He was the one who made her life worthwhile. But he is gone. So she is here.
Take your time, would you understand
what it's all about, what it's all about
She cannot think of a meaning now. A meaning to life. So she sits, day after day.
Something's scratching its way out
She seemed to be waiting for something, or maybe someone. She sat there, day after day, week after week, doing nothing. Staring. Writing. Erasing. They all wondered why she used paper instead of a laptop. It would be so much easier to delete what she thought of as mistakes than to erase over and over. But no one said anything. She wouldn't hear them, anyways.
Something you want to forget about
Six months after she started coming was the only time she ever interrupted her reverie to take notice of someone. Yet another man went over to her, tried to start a conversation. Unlike the others, he was not perturbed by her silence, her expression carved out of stone. She held the tea cupped in her hands, and was staring at it. She was beautiful; no make-up and yet would stop any man in his tracks if she ever wanted to. Maybe that was why he didn't go. When she didn't respond to him, he took her silence as an invitation. He leaned in close, and whispered in her ear. No one else heard what he said,and he never told anyone. Before he could move, she was out of her seat, her hand around his neck, her silver eyes flashing fire. She didn't move as his eyes bulged, as he gasped for air. It seemed like an hour, but it was only forty-five seconds. She let go, and he slid to the floor, gulping air as though he couldn't get enough. She sat back down, and did not move again until she left that night.
No one expects you to get out
No one else came to her, and any newcomer that tried was quickly stopped by the regulars. The only one that came close to her after that was the waitress.
On your own with no one around
Exactly one year after she first stepped into the café, she disappeared. Her last day, she left twice her usual tip for the waitress, along with the worn piece of paper. She was never seen again.
*DISCLAIMER* The lines in italic are lyrics from the song "Little House" by the Fray.This is just my interpretation of the song. It is in no way official. No blonde girls in black were harmed in the making of this story. Thank you and have a nice day.
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