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Café des Âmes Solitaires
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Vignettes He surveyed the estaminet, placidly touching the thoughts of the patrons with vague disinterest. When his madam bestowed this particular gift on him she cautioned it was not intended to be used as an invasion of privacy. It was strictly business. Sometimes though he found it to be an involuntary reaction to those in close proximity, a reflex nuisance he couldn't precisely control.
Two of the cafe's regulars sat at their respective tables. Mr. Calhoun, a snappy cross-dresser perched in his favorite spot under a hand-tinted photograph of Charles Baudelaire in harlot drag supine on a pillowed divan sucking on a hookah pipe. He had been there the day that Sammy first arrived and every Tuesday and Thursday since. He was a kindly old gentleman fond of ladies tweed suits and sensible low-heeled pumps, ubiquitous chestnut trilby jauntily topping the ensemble. Today he reads Punchinello, laughs aloud occasionally, dunks an almond biscotti into his usual black coffee with a splash of cognac.
Across the room was Miss Percey. She was a knitter. A strand of scarlet yarn tailed off from her needles into an upholstered bag settled next to a Welsh Corgi napping at her feet. She also was fond of tweed suits but hers with pants and distinctly masculine tailoring. Mondays and Thursdays were her days, her beverage of choice a sweet creamy Belgian roast with a dash of nutmeg.
Clearly these two had not one malignant thought between them but Sammy knew that they were fond of each other though never once had he seen either sneak so much as a curious glance at the other.
The only remaining habitue, a young hooligan who few would know by his hardened appearance that beneath is the soul of a melancholy poet, heartbroken, stuck-in-the-mire of unrequited love. Usually he comes in at 10:00pm everynight, orders thick bitter espresso one after another, chain-smokes kreteks, writes nonstop for hours until closing time. Sam wondered if the kid ever slept with all that caffeine running through him. However today he had arrived early and sat by the front window instead of his expected booth in the back. He might not have recognized the lad had he not been carrying his signature black & white composition book and his worn copy of Finnegans Wake. His head was clean-shaven having been shorn of the faded aqua mohawk which once a vibrant blue had lately hung limp and lackluster. He don a clean black canvas jacket over a crisp white t-shirt, red & black plaid wool trews cuffed neatly over his customary shit-kickin' boots which appeared to be freshly polished. All of his piercings were gone but for 2 thick steel hoops in his right ear. He ordered a cherry soda and did not smoke at all, just stared out at the sidewalk with an unfocused gaze. A pink-haired girl stood on the curb across the street from the cafe. She looked for a moment as if she might cross over and come in but then shook her head and hurried away.
The bell above the door jingled. Sam heard the immortal coming before he even walked in, barefoot, matted black hair, sickly greenish pallor, a good 7 feet tall, heroin thin wearing a heavy black duster over his bare chest and tattered slacks. He assessed the surroundings suspiciously but none of the others bothered to look at him.
Sam wiped his wet hands on a bar rag, "What can I get for you?", even though he already knew the answer to his own question.
The rogue spoke in measured words, throat parched, voice rasping, "I've come to see Mistress Maxine".
