In case you never remembered, I started a loose collection of writing about the people in a coffee shop and the couple that own it…

It’s called Ophelia’s Cafe…

It was to be a hipster romance, with the couple owning the shop being a solid unchanging rock amidst the turmoil of the fast paced inner-city and it’s very odd inhabitants. Not sure if I want to keep it that way though. Here, in 1st draft, the unnamed male owner reveals a past indiscretion…

Brie came in the door mid day with sleep still in her eyes and a sun-ray smile. Part of the Artists Co-Op down the street, her clothes reflected her mood for the day. Today she was punk cabaret with a shortened distressed gown, visible stockings and garters with a tri-corner hat that brought back Adam Ant songs to me.

She was a prettier version of Amanda Palmer. A comment that if spoken aloud would of instantly caused them to shun me, as beauty is internal, or a process that is created. An easy way to see the world when all of them were young and beautiful. She was, of course, perpetually broke, and perpetually rich of imagination. She ordered an americano- the cheapest on the menu. As she spoke, a perfume of patchouli and sweat roiled from her body in invisible fractals.

Staring into nothingness, I went to the La Marzocco and whipped her up a quad venti extra vanilla breve latte. More to see her milk white thigh tap incessantly at the table than due to any altruism or respect for the arts.

I once tasted her mouth. Isabella had already gone home for the night. A wild night her “troupe” played the coffee shop. Even though she had been drinking almond italian sodas all night she tasted of cotton candy. And youth. Glorious, vibrant, unobtainable youth.

My cock immediately grew hard during the unprompted kiss before they called her onto the stage (really just a few sheets of raised plywood) at the front of the coffee shop. I looked into her eyes and saw freedom. She smiled and ran forward. They played until way past closing. Her ethereal smile and odd lyrics carrying the night.

To her it was nothing. A good luck charm. Something performed at every show. Like someone saying, “Break a leg!”. To me it was a brick wall around my heart. Or a tidal wave of lost opportunities. To me it crushed me. To her it gave her an instant of strength.

I still feel her lips when she walks in the door. She feels hunger, or thinks of a warm coffee. Maybe the nice owner giving her a free scone.

Do we celebrate talent? Or the unlikely intersection of beauty and creativity?

Either way, life moves on. The pain only real to the observer…

“Hey bean”, I say as what looks like a grumpy, sexy, gypsy bangs through the door. “Shut up, and give me a quad vente”, she growls. Uh oh, I think to myself, the date-of-the-week must of went poorly lastnight. She’s a minor local celebrity after her coffee table book of dildo cozy patterns went nuclear on one of the local morning talk shows. She is also one of our oldest and best friends.

Her parents named her Lima after the bean. She tells people Lima, as in Peru. She pulls it off too with her light olive skin, round luscious hips and thick dreadlocks always wrapped in some exotic print or knit. At least she fools other people. We know she is a sex-starved neo-hippie with a noble English ancestry and a nasty three latte a-day habit. Goddess bless her.

Her dating habits went from sad spinster contemplating a bulk cat purchase to needing to use iCal to keep track of her dates. It all happened after her ex-dotcom friend woke up one day and decided he was going into the publishing and binding business……

Isabella in my non-existent book is what makes it a hipster love story. No whimpering little girl stuffing her face with ice cream and complaining to her cat about not finding a man.

She’s strong. She understands the world and herself. She accepts her femininity without letting society define what feminine means. She creates the new female architype with every breathe she takes. She’s the self-actualized bitch goddess of destruction, and love. Oh, she has issues. And she intimately knows each one like an old, comfortable blanket.

Her name and her identity aren’t a mistake. She came to life one day during one of my goddess kicks. Here’s some background. I came across this description of the book Reviving Ophelia, I’m sure Isabella read it. Probably given to her by her dreadlocked grandmother:

In Reviving Ophelia, Dr. Pipher explains how the domination of females is a direct result of social pressures to be beautiful and sexy rather than intelligent, independent and self reliable. A comparison is made to Ophelia who, as a girl, is happy and free but loses herself in adolescence because she falls in love with Hamlet and lives only for his needs and wants. Rather than being independent, Ophelia strives to meet the demands of her loved one; her self-esteem is based only on his approval. …. The author of the book brings a new light to definitions in which culture has defined them. Sexy is intelligence, the way you carry yourself, you confidence, and being your true to who you are.

The most amazing part of moving to the West Coast was finding these women. The Northwest somehow has bred this woman. I never saw this growing up in Illinois or Wisconsin. It’s truly breathtaking to be downtown, or in Freemont, or in Portland and see these women. They glow with an amazing internal energy.

I’ll leave you with the final part that gave Isabella her name. The song Isabella(click for mp3) from Mediaeval Baebes on the Undrentide CD:

Lyrics (Modern Italian)
Translation

Io Isabella danzando ne prati
I Isabella dancing

Verdi della primavera
on the spring meadows

Girando e girando, cascando e cascando
Turning and turning, falling and falling

Nel mondo delle elfi sognando
Into the world of the elves dreaming

Mi prendono la mano, mi portano lontano
They take my hand and they take me far away

Mi prendono la mano, mi portano lontano
They take my hand and they take me far away

I swear to myself and the blogosphere I will finish my hipster love story book…

It’s 6:30 am on a dreary Wednesday morning. A cloak of chill air is trying it’s hardest to hang on despite the receding night. The sky outside has that rare backlit quality to it thats causing everyday objects to take on a glow of etherealness. In other words, it’s a perfect coffee day.

Isabella is in the back room loading up an ice bucket to refill the bin at the counter. I’m finishing counting out the morning cash drawer. I know as a business owner I’m supposed to love customers, but it’s this morning silence that I love the most. It’s the stillness, the ability to move at my own pace, not the customers. The time to breathe, to intake the air and know that this space is mine. I created this place, this atmosphere. This public sphere of conversations and thought. Out of the corner of my eye I see movement in the curves of the clean latte glasses on the counter.

Isabella slides in next to me and unceremoniously settles the heavy bucket to the floor. I give her a goofy far off smile and she gives me a knowing back-and-forth shake of her head, “Sure you counted that correctly, space monkey?” “Of course”, I say, “One beeellion dollars.” She just rolls her eyes and begins scooping the ice into the bin. Another day at Ophelia’s coffee shop has begun.