A CHILD'S WOUND
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, alive or deceased, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2009 by Dwayne Kavanagh
All rights reserved. The use of any part of the publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher; or in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying-- license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing agency—is an infringement of copyright law.
ISBN: 978-0-9813233-0-5
Smashwords Edition
For Nicky
ONE
On the other side of the window, people flowed down the cold wet sidewalk passing one another, and not one made eye contact with the other. A woman walked by the window as if she was held back by gale force winds. A scarf was wrapped tightly around her face.
Inside, Tim found solace in his latte as Dave Matthew's chocolate-coal voice poured out from the speaker above, drowning out the melodic baristas that sung back orders to the cashiers. Coffee fanatics filled the room, snaking through the display of oversized coffee cups labelled with words of wisdom. Tim noticed a Cuisinart coffeemaker edging off of the display, and he reached across the aisle and pushed it back out of harm’s way.
He saw her slide through the line-up; her dress caught a button as she squeezed between two men, revealing her cleavage. Two pairs of eyes: one in awe, one in disgust. Oblivious to the event, she moved through the crowd with a red leather coat draped over her arm. A fiery aura manifested around her straight strawberry hair, reflecting from the light above. It contrasted with her dark hazel eyes. Looking up from his cup, he made eye contact and flashed an interested smile. The look caught her off guard and lingered long enough to become personal.
Rising from the table, he walked toward her as she approached, folding a newspaper in his hand. Within a breath of her, he turned and sidled as she slipped past, not saying a word. Glancing back, he noticed her milky white skin turn a light shade of pink. She looked back at him; frozen. Ready, smiling, his soft eyes engaged. Her color began to fade away: white again. Her head slowly moved from side to side, and as if she was on a runway, she strutted toward the back of the line, waiting to place her order. In line, she checked her watch and reapplied her lipstick.
Picking up the creamy latte, she moved toward a pair of leather bucket chairs in the back. She reclined into the comfort of the brown chair, laying her coat over the arm.
He slid the folded newspaper into a wooden rack on the floor beside the counter.
Shoulders back, hands swinging in rhythm at his sides, Tim approached with confidence.
"Hi. Do you mind if I sit down?"
She looked up and acknowledged the comment, as if to say it’s up to you, but she didn’t directly answer the question. They enjoyed a few seconds of silence as he took off his brown suede sports jacket. He observed her brush away the hair covering her face.
"Getting out of the rain?" he asked.
“My hair is a disaster.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
She laughed off his subtle compliment, and he watched a small pink cloud surface on the skin of her cheeks.
"Thank you, I think. I’m Simone," she said.
He sipped the remainder of his green tea latte, and the sweet and sour flavour soaked his palate. He studied her every movement, and some of the signs he knew to look for were there.
“My name’s Tim,” he said.
"Look, I’m not here to get picked up if that’s what you’re thinking."
He savoured the comment, touched it, and released it into the warm air. He grinned.
“Wasn’t my intent. You’re not my type.”
She crossed her legs toward him. "Oh you’re one of those guys."
"You’re funny. No. Not quite.”
She sipped her latte, all the while never losing eye contact. "So what’s your type then?"
"I thought you weren’t interested in getting picked up?"
"I’m not saying I am but tell me anyway."
He kept the conversation flowing as he described his ideal mate, and she responded as if stung by each of the characteristics that were direct opposites of her.
“For example, look at what you’re wearing today.”
“Why? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“It’s pouring rain. It’s cold. Here, look at that woman over there in line.”
“Who, the lady dressed like a man in a suit?”
“You see she’s prepared for the weather. Classy.”
“So you think I have no class?” she asked.
“That’s not what I said. I said I usually go for women that are a little more elegant and let’s say a lot less flamboyant.”
“Oh, so you like girls who wear pants is that it?”
He laughed at the comment but she seemed serious. He silenced the laugh and pretended to ponder her question.