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Archive-name: Casual/sdwlkcaf.txt

Archive-author: Bill Westerman   (c) 1990

Archive-title: Sidewalk Cafe, The


  The air was hot and muggy, and even though the sun had begun to set a while 

  back the passing cars and concrete sidewalk kept everything unbearable.  

  Even the customers sitting and eating dinner under the Cinzano umbrellas 

  were continually mopping up sweat with little square cocktail napkins.  The 

  cold air from the kitchen was my only salvation and I would linger in the 

  oasis until I could sense the customers beginning to question my 

  whereabouts, appearing for a cursory refilling of glasses only to retreat 

  again.  The streetlights all clicked on at once with a buzzing sound, 

  casting their amber-white light across the tables and cigarette smoke.


  As the night progressed the high school kids took their Camaros and 

  Mustangs and headed off to the movies or the late-night softball games as 

  the neighborhood slowly regained its composure.  Older couples strolled the 

  area, stopping off at one cafe or another and ordering their coffee, 

  decaffinated, with half and half.  The two that always took the table 

  nearest the street wearily got up and ambled off towards their apartment, 

  leaving the habitual full ashtray covering a healthy tip.  The peacefulness 

  was briefly interrupted as an ambulance blew by full-tilt, heading off into 

  the distance sirens wailing.


  Eventually the sky lost all hints of sunlight and the sidewalk tables 

  emptied one by one, allowing me to rest for a moment as my single remaining 

  table full of Spaniards engaged itself in an animated conversation, arms 

  flailing and gesticulating wildly, beer sitting sweating and getting warm.  

  I looked across the street to the Cafe Italia, with the "I" in "Italia" 

  blinking on and off as the neon tube went bad, when I caught a glimpse of a 

  new waitress standing wearily behind the counter slowly counting her tips, 

  the neon reflected in the display cases of the cafe.


  She would exit to the sidewalk every few minutes and check her customers, 

  filling a cup of coffee or taking away a plate, only to stand in the 

  doorway for a moment and look off down the street before disappearing back 

  into the cafe.  Her medium-length wavy bleached-blond hair moved strangely, 

  witness to damage from repeated styling.  Even her clothes looked rough, 

  her knee-length jeans fighting her as she walked, her white t-shirt half 

  untucked and hanging crooked, but all the elements brought her a certain 

  exotic aire, made her look strong-willed and confident.


  The cooler night air began to appear, rustling through the trees as it 

  wandered down the street and through the cafe.  After the Spaniards went 

  onward, we brought in the sidewalk furniture and turned off the exterior 

  lights, closing shop for another day.  I was still wide awake and the now 

  refreshing air begged me to stay outdoors for a while more, to go over to 

  the Italia and chat with the owner, sit at one of those black marble tables 

  and drink a strong cappuchino.  The waitress was clearing her last sidewalk 

  table as I went inside, carefully balancing plates and glasses on a big 

  gray Rubbermaid tray as she glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.


  After a brief exchange of dialog with "Grandi," as I called him, I sat down 

  at the corner table of the now empty cafe, facing the window so I could 

  watch the street as the new waitress put away the last dishes and wiped off 

  the tables.  She looked like someone who was in a losing battle with life 

  after too many bad experiences, but willing to continue the fight.  Grandi 

  locked the door and shut down most of the lights, pointing to the new 

  waitress and saying, "Hey, meet Ellen, she's a-starting tonight; she's a 

  new in town" as he disappeared into the kitchen to help his wife finish up 

  the cleaning.  The expresso machine complained loudly as it dripped out the 

  last cup of the night.


  Ellen came over to my table, setting down her coffee, cigarettes, and a 

  couple of left-over pastries.  For some reason I had expected her face to 

  be different, soft in contrast to her harsh persona, but it also looked 

  rebellious.  She offered me one of the pastries and we chatted together as 

  we ate; for some strange reason she attracted me greatly, she was gutsy and 

  brash but at the same time coquettishly feminine.  Grandi had finished up 

  in the back and from habit I knew it was time to take off.  The crisp air 

  was a sharp contrast to that of the cafe as Ellen and I walked out to the 

  now deserted sidewalk.


  When I found out that she lived in the old district about a mile East I 

  offered to give her a ride home, realizing that she probably wouldn't take 

  me up on it as I gestured towards my motorcycle, but she accepted anyway.  

  I rocked the bike off its footpeg and started it up, listening to the motor 

  complain after sitting for ten hours in the sun.  Ellen got on and grabbed 

  me around the waist with her left hand, holding her cigarette out of the 

  wind the right and pressing up against my back as we raced away.  The city 

  streets were devoid of anything at this hour, only cardboard boxes and 

  empty cups blowing around in strange little whirlpools of wind and empty 

  buses wandering through their routes.


  Her apartment was old and small, up on the third floor, all the windows 

  open and the breeze blowing through the broken screens.  She went off to 

  the kitchen for the beer she had promised me as I settled down into the 

  couch, feeling the decades of life that the apartment had seen, the stains 

  on the wall from previous occupants and the scars in the hardwood floor 

  from long ago.  Ellen turned on the TV and sat down next to me, a six-pack 

  in hand, kicking off her shoes and leaning to my shoulder.  Some old serial 

  was playing on the tube, black and white images reflecting off the few 

  things she had in the room, as her hair moved with the summer wind.


  I put an arm around her as she pushed up even closer to me, holding her 

  tightly and feeling her body move with every breath.  She was watching the 

  television half-heartedly, her legs curled up under her like a small child.  

  After a few minutes of silence she looked up at me and for the first time I 

  noticed her intense blue eyes.  She glanced down to her cigarette and after 

  taking a long drag put it out and looked up at me, her pouty lips betraying 

  her inner emotions.  I reached down for her leg and felt her quiver with my 

  touch, move even closer to me as we kissed, at first tentatively and 

  quickly with force.  I pushed her back and she grabbed me, running her 

  hands up and down my back as we rubbed our bodies together.


  A quick motion and she removed my shirt, leaving my work-tired chest bare 

  to the room, kissing me down my neck and then holding me tight.  Her blond 

  hair fell against the cushion behind her, spreading out broadly and 

  contrasting with the darkness of the room.  With her help we removed her 

  shirt and tank-top bra, leaving two small round breasts for my attentions.  

  She too had worked most of the afternoon and night, and our worn bodies 

  ached for release, for an excuse to be tired and dirty.  I alternately 

  kissed her and ran my fingers across her stomach, teasing toward her 

  breasts until finally catching them with my mouth, one by one, adoring and 

  worshiping her with every motion.


  Our pants huddled together in one little mass at the foot of the sofa, 

  liberating our bodies and letting the sexual tension build higher.  She 

  rolled me over onto my back and moved to the floor, deftly taking me into 

  her mouth and edging me slowly on, the black and white images of the TV 

  reflecting on the ceiling and across her smooth back.  I wanted her, wanted 

  her next to me, holding me, pushing me, being tough and charming.  She was 

  strong, in control of the situation and I was being controlled by her 

  desires, her breasts heaving with her respiration and her legs slowly 

  beginning to shake from excitement.


  We rolled off the couch onto the floor, pushing the makeshift coffee table 

  out of the way and laughing as the beer cans rolled across the room, 

  rocking our bodies together in unison, her breasts in my hands and her 

  hands searching my back, my arms, my chest.  A rumble of thunder sounded in 

  the distance as the wind picked up, signs of an upcoming storm.  I writhed 

  with her, feeling the warmth of her clit as she rocked against my fingers, 

  the tiredness of her face overcome with pleasure, a smile appearing on sad 

  lips.  Ellen grabbed me and pulled me close, insistent upon immediate 

  satisfaction, begging me with her eyes and pushing her hips against mine.


  I could feel her warmth slide around me, at first uncertain of the long-

  awaited intrusion but then opening eagerly to my faster strokes.  The sound 

  of us, of our bodies, mixed with the rain now beginning to fall outside, 

  the thunder every moment coming closer.  I could feel her begin to lose 

  control of her emotions, to open herself to pure pleasure, and my intensity 

  increased as the same time, rocking harder and breathing deeply as she rode 

  up and down me, tightening her inner muscles as I retracted and loosening 

  as I re-entered each time.  Finally the outside world became immaterial, 

  the TV, the apartment, the rain, and we exploded together there on the 

  living room floor, abruptly lessening the pace and returning to stillness.


  "Hold on a second, I gotta close the windows." she said.


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