Short story- "The Lost Boy"
The lost boy, who took a turn too soon the right and went straight on till morning.
Epigrapgh-
"According to greek mythology, Humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their whole lives in search of their other halves."- Plato
His eyes will forever remind me of a cup of black coffee, warm but cursed with a bitterness behind them. He didn’t have a face that could make your stomach erupt in butterflies or any of those disgustingly sweet clichés, but face that held questions. His long thick eyelashes casted over the dark circles that appeared as black ink stamps lining his amber orbs. With cheek bones and a jaw that could lacerate steel, he mirrored a collage of emotions that formed into one face. A misfit image of cut-out male models from a magazine, his canvas was somehow held together but not completely melded into one another. His olive skin had a sallow pale overcoat resembling my grandmothers puke yellow couch that has been passed down from generation to generation. Unruly strands of his raven mane stuck out at random angles and amplified the intensity that highlighted his persona. I had only wanted a simple cup of coffee but now I found my thoughts preoccupied more with the need to decipher what was behind the appearance of this young man.
At times I can still recall the Distance shouts that echoed around him as he hustled and bustled in the small area behind the counter. How he was lost in the middle of a sea of commands with a look of suffocation painted across his face. I wanted to be the painter of the masterpiece that was the mystery of himself. Not because I had formed some strange infatuation with this being but merely since I felt it was woven in my destiny to understand the reality behind the mask.
How I had stood patiently awaiting my turn like many others cramped into the tiny unfinished Starbucks nestled in Brussels international airport even as I shook with anxiety at the idea of speaking with this confusing soul. The light and airy smell of coffee danced around me and calmed my un-settled nerves. I had no longer felt pestered about the weight of the bags that laid under eyes that were in no way, shape or form designer. The fact that I had wasted away the six measly hours of sleep bingeing on Netflix the night before or the bumpy life threatening five-hour drive from the Netherlands in one of the rare summer storms that had traveled from the coast. My complaints that earlier nagged anyone within a mile raider of me was silenced as my eyes drank in the Boys sharp and detached movements around the meager coffee house. My wide curious eyes followed his every movement as his mouth opened and he yelled something in a language unknown to me to a co-worker and brought whatever was left of his attention back to the whaling coffee machine. I was huddled behind three or four people in a line that would fit right into a store on Black-Friday. The queue turned and twisted around the small Starbucks coffee house inside Brussels airport.
When he had began taking the orders I spotted the worn down emerald name tag that hitched onto his coffee splattered grey sweatshirt. I couldn’t formulate the words that were written in his name tag and my stomach dropped in disappointment. Slowly, I was met with the same brown amber eyes that oozed the number of emotions I couldn’t choose from. I want to say that as our eyes locked something miraculous happened and the many wonders of his questioning enigma was answered but that was no where near the truth. When I finally approached the top of the line I stared ahead at the boy with whose eyes were dripping with dark drowning emotions. Mesmerized not by beauty but by something that held vast power over my soul: A question. “What can I get for you?” His voice was not rough like I had imagined it and it didn’t overflow with malice. It was strong and heavy but somewhere masked, because you could hear the pure exhaustion that leaked through the cracks in his resolve. I didn’t miss the heavy French accent that laced his words. It wasn’t annoying or irritating, it was like the last puzzle piece that put together his identity. Although he was lost in the middle of the rush he had a unique patience about him that made me feel like he could wait forever on just about anything. With his eyes cast downwards to the cash register and a light frown pulling down his rosy lips, I felt the strangest urge to say something that would not just make him smile for the second but to replace the yearning in his eyes. Just a mumble, anything. To even wipe my fingers across his face to erase the stubborn little frown that was securely locked onto his face and made a hollow home in his heart. It would only be right that I followed the one thing that has always lead me to the right answer. It would only make perfect sense that I would answer to the calling that shook through my insides and clamped onto my heart with iron fists. However, I did the quite opposite; I said the words that his ears were more familiar to. “I’ll take a Grande caramel macchiato with whip cream please.” My voice sounding like a whisper. He showed no recognition of catching my request but his fingers nimbly taped away at the register. I had wondered if he felt that draw to, that pinched at his soul. “Ten Euros.” The young mans voice had dropped down in volume. Before scavenging through my purse I gazed at him my eyes consuming every detail of his presence. After what seemed like a minute or too his cozy coffee stained eyes met mine. Shamefully, like I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar, I tucked my head down pulled out whatever cash I saw in my bag. I handed the loose change to him, our fingers gently touching and just like his eyes his hands burned with warmth. In an instant I was being offered the remnants of the money I gave him. It was then I felt it again, the urgency that tore through me earlier but again I brushed it off. Pocketed the loose coins I dragged my body to the other side of the counter my eyes firmly latched to this mystery before me. My ears weren’t graced with his voice but I watched his pink lips move swiftly, no doubt asking what the next person had wanted. Distracted, I hadn’t heard the multiple calls of my order until a near by costumer tapped my shoulder suddenly drawing me back to the noisy café. I numbly reached for my drink and found my feet leading me further and further away from the counter and the scene of the boy who was physically there but was adrift in the tides of his mind.
I still find myself wondering about that young man chained away inside that tight Brussels coffee house. Some night I still ponder if he’s okay, if his eyes had lost the edge of darkness that haunted the brightness of them. If somehow four thousand five hundred and eighty-five miles from here He’s wearing a smile and his olive skin once again held the brilliance and exuberance of the sun.
That day I had made a terrible mistake, I hadn’t listened to my heart. I had heard the multiple screams to do something and I ignored it. I knew from the moment I left the coffee shop that I had walked away from something that I would never get to experience again. The opportunity to let someone know that they are loved and appreciated. That they are not alone and casted away in a sea of loneliness. I don’t remember finishing my coffee or even being terrified when I was aboard the flying death trap to Barcelona. I only remember the boy. The warm tormented coffee eyes, that clawed away at my psyche.
I have a crippling feeling and my throat burns at the idea that the lost boy wouldn’t find his way to NeverLand. That his life would never change.
In the future when the brains of our society have finally built a time machine I know where my second destination would be. I would travel back to that knit, deafening coffee house in Brussels airport and after ordering my well-needed coffee I would confidently ask the dejected boy three simple words. Are you okay?