Fill this ghost town up with life//Tsiuri&Marcus

Rockwell thinks he's that dude for flaking out on our meetup. "My man, you have got to give me some credit here." Talking to each other, we stood on opposite sides of the table.

I hadn't heard from him until tonight. I half expected him to not show up today too. We resumed our typical spots at the kitchen the following night, where Rocks came in huffing and puffing about "I'm so sorry, dude." He threw several excuses at me, bubbling out of his mouth like a feral dog. He just kept apologizing- a smile came out of my mouth, sly, like a fox, because I know the apology stumble as well as anyone else. Mom criticizes me frequently about it.

Soon enough, the flowing river of excuses and apologies ends, and I understand what Mom means. Kind of. It isn't the end of the world - apologize once, and they'll get the message. Not that I'll ever take that message to heart, but it's nice to observe outside my body. "Rocks, it's okay." I pat him on the shoulder, taking my hands off the sandwich conveyor belt we've set up. While I told him about the night of his absence, he got giddy, almost like a teenager. It's better that I talk to him about it. With Mom, she'd start nagging me, saying that it's "about time you find a girl for yourself," like my romantic life is the only thing that can redeem me. Maybe it is, which is best that I don't tell her.

Is it a date? Or is it just a connection where a young boy seeking validation receives the sparkling glance of a female and feels a flutter? I've always feared my innocence would do this. It's just a girl; it was just one night. The letter under my pillow says it shouldn't be just one night. But why should it be? I'm not... special nor interesting; all I do is volunteer and stumble over my words in front of other girls. I don't know, let alone do girls, okay? God forbid I ask Mom for help. As I kept telling him about the night, he kept hyping me for more. "Well, you have to go." I agree, but I would never say that. What if she just wanted to make a joke out of me? The concept of someone inviting me out is... weird, given the last person to do so didn't even show up.

I got home and sat on my bed, putting my head in my hands. It's weird and stupid - the bumps that fill my arm and the skip that my heart gets over just going out with someone. Why am I feeling like this? It's like I'm eleven years old again, getting on the bus and towering over people that are two or three tears older than me. The stares, the whispers, the uncomfortable shuffle closer to the window when I set next to someone. I didn't belong then, and on what premise would I ever belong at this coffee shop?

Questions flurry through, and as I fall back onto my bed, paranoia is enough of a sedative to send me to sleep. The breakfast table is silent. Momma asks what I'm doing for the day, expecting a shrug or a response as fulfilling as her meals (which is a low bar). "I'm meeting up with someone at noon," is all I give her, which is enough to cause her eyebrow to perk as she picks at her food.

"Someone?" She takes another bite of the rubbery substance, continuing her light investigation, "who's this someone? Is it someone I know?" Her array of questions already makes it hard to find hope. My head dips in defeat, knowing that she would never give up. There's a rollex of questions I presume she has, so I answer them quickly after one last bite of food.

"Someone I met two days ago when Rockwell didn't show up at the bar. You don't know her. Yes, she is my age. Yes, she's nice. No, I don't think she's trying to trick me. Yes, she's pretty. No, it isn't a date, no, she isn't my girlfriend." Satisfied, I dab my face with the napkin provided, placing it on the table. "I've got to go now. Bye, Momma." I lean over her chair, extending my arms for a hug. "You can get told more later." Not that I don't want to get her hopes up, but talking about it anymore would have put my food back onto the plate. Nerves bubbling up my throat so much made it hard to swallow the already poorly cooked substance.

Stacks of shirts and pants later, I made my way out of the door, already late to the meeting. A dodgy alleyway and a wave of anxiety later, I hurry my way through. It's not a place I'd send myself to typically, but the flutter of my heart outweighed the panic in my mind for once. Though, it's hard to fully commit to the idea in my mind that this isn't some big joke. Maybe she's got connections to people that just want a fool out of me. It takes a few minutes once I'm inside to locate her, sitting in the corner with her red-painted lips and beautiful hair.

Beautiful, sheesh, that's a word I try to avoid. Once I start placing beauty on things, I tend to lose reality, but if being with her is a fantasy, a part of my childlike memories flutter at a new reality. She waved me over, and it's safe to say my pace wasn't slick. It's the new space, the event; I don't know what to expect. I feel that bubbly sensation on my arms again, where my hairs stick up and my body chills from anxiety.

"Hey, Tsiuri." My voice, as calm as I can grab it, holds a strain of nervousness anyone can read from. Internally I practiced saying her name as many times as possible on the walk, ensuring I say it right. It doesn't take much to trip my words up. "How, uh-" as my words already begin to fumble, I let out a nervous laugh. "How are you, today?" I search her eyes for approval, for interest, for any sign of emotion. As much as I try to tell my mom otherwise, I'm still just a boy, searching for validation.

If I wasn’t awkward enough, the pouch of change shuffling with every move doesn’t help at all. Like rain on the sidewalk, the pitter patter of swishing coins makes my anxious foot-tapping, body-shifting movements make me look more like an idiot.

Money’s rough, alright? I've got to work with whatever scraps I have remaining in my small glass jar. Momma’ hates me for it. Says that I gotta get an actual job - ”you ain’t stayin’ here forever,” she nags. I can’t get her off of me, anything I do is wrong, but for once in my life something feels right. I look at her, lips red and almost glossy, like the way hard candy looks in the window. Its sweetness beckons people inside, and her lips do just that. ”Hi, Marcus.” She tells me, lips curled like a cat, and I find it harder to keep whatever “cool” I have remaining.

This is happening. Like, me, out with someone that isn’t just Rocks from the kitchen or my Momma. But I don’t know what this is. She’s pretty, she’s being nice to me, but is she being nice because she can sense I’ve got nobody else? The one person that was supposed to meet me here didn’t even show up. Does she just feel bad for me? Maybe Rocks set somethin’ up. Rocks knows a ton of dudes. Or he reached out to the bar owner, asked him to set up something with a girl that night, and just hoped it’d go well for me. That I wouldn’t fuck anything up as I do, according to my Momma.

She nods, following her movement to say that ”I’m doing good”, which leads to a sting to my heart. Mom says I small talk too much. This, as the few words tumble out, flashes into my mind as a red flag for my experience. I’ve screwed this up, right? Her head directs itself toward the other chair, empty, and making her look more alone than I’m joining her. ”Might be doing a little better if you were to stop just standing there and would take a seat…I already told you I don’t bite.” She lets out a laugh, but I can’t tell the flavor of it, which leads me to take a seat quickly. A little too excitedly, but nonetheless, my pants jingle once again at the move. ”How are you?” She asks, all the care in her heart but none for me to catch. Tsiuri’s eyes lock in with mine. It’s a dare, and I bought into the gamble.

”I’m, uh,” I was never a gambler, which damages my (already receding) confidence even more. ”Good.” I swallow the pit of doubt. ”Glad I found this place without a map,” because it’s harder than I expected to get around 11. People from my friend group have a history of ditching, but god, I’d never.

”What do you normally, uh,” I wave my hand around, not exactly sure the specifics of the place. I don’t know what they serve, man. It’s a darn cafe, Marcus, I think. ”Get here? If you’ve got any preferences?”

Like a cat with a mouse, his heart chases his ego. It’s like his heart had just learned how to walk - a toddler on the legs that haven’t been used to run, only crawl. Marcus wasn’t ever a lover, no, he never gained that skill. He appreciated - saw the pretty things, but had always been told that those things weren’t for him. According to his momma he ain’t got the brains for those types of things, yet she always ask when he’s gonna bring one home.

He’s confus’d, to say the least, when such a pretty young woman like Tsiuri shows an interest. He can’t tell left from right, let alone the social dynamics of platonic to romantic. Most of the time, Marcus needed someone like Rocksroy to give him a nudge in the right direction. He’s too old to rely on a mother’s shadow to protect him.

Here, he’s alone. It’s a matter of feeling the static in the room, if it’s buzzing or at a hum, if there’s a void in the air that he just somehow can’t fill. The shelter never trained him for that; it only trained him how to warm up a pot and stir around some combination of vegetables and diced up chicken. If Tsiuri were a bowl of soup, he’d be set, but unfortunately all he’s got is a bowl of damn rocks for a brain (according to his momma).

Following his question, T shoots her spine up, sitting up straight like his momma always hammered him to do growin up. Soon after, she starts running down a list of options the place has. Just like the bar she worked at, she knows a lot! Stuff about the coffee essentials, espressos, lattes, straight up coffee. She claims to be a fan of cied coffee and throw some vanilla ice cream in as well - she was really goin on a roll there but she stopped herself mid spiel. Two beats pass, as she seems to reclaim her pace.

Tsiuri speaks again, slower, radiating a consciousness that Marcus couldn’t ever integrate into his body. ”Y’know, they have menus up front.” Well, yes, he thinks to himself. He just trusts her judgment. And he should, right? She seems to know a lot about drinks. Coffees, alcohol, maybe even teas. Her judgment is good. Marcus has never been someone to read off the menu himself - the people around him know whats best, or he just picks at a side of food that he’s never expanded from. It’s simple.

Marcus likes simple.

She raises her voice again, suggesting that we had a look at those and I ordered something for you, and you ordered something for me? Then while we wait, you can tell me if you gave that friend of yours hell for never showing up”, at first, he flashes a smile at the mention of Rocks. If only she knew that the 30-year-old-man felt like a professional matchmaker. He then replays the idea Tsiuri provided, which sends the beast-sized child into an internal panic.

Marcus doesn’t call the shots. He’s never been the leader, he jus takes the backseat and lets the driver pick his course. His momma knew that, Rocks knew that. They were people that, over time, Marcus knew he could place his faith into. They wouldn’t surprise him - which is good for the boy. T, he doesn’t know T. T could give him something spicy. Can coffee have spice? Marcus doesn’t know, but he also doesn’t know many things in the first place. He just knows he likes what he likes. ”Uh-” He begins to stumble.

Tsiuri’s lips are pressed, tempting him like a python wraps around the arms and legs of its next prey. Marcus didn’t want to ruin whatever was happening now, or whatever could come from it. He had to make his momma proud - even if it ain’t in his normal routine. ”Uh-” his eyes dart around, trying to find anything, something comforting to land his eyes on. Something that gives the support he needs, not verbally, but physically with its’ presence. He normally has his momma to look at, because she knows the answer better than he would. She always has.

Maybe she was right - he ain’t gonna bring a girl home.

The thought of a girl brings his eyes back to the beautiful pair of eyes in front of him, and the courage it took to come to this darn cafe acts as enough comfort. He made it here, he can make it out, right? It’s just one order. ”Yeah, yeah.” He nods, weary but trying to tear the head of the confidence-choking python off. It takes a moment before he fully embraces his breath, wanting to make his voice sound less concerned than it was. He stands back up, the shuffling change reentering the warm ambiance of the building. ”Let’s do it. Do you, uh, mind going first?” Marcus tries to provide a sheepish smile to excuse himself from being the first to order. ”I need a second to, uh, you know”, come on, Marcus, think! ”Know the menu.” As she stands up to move with him, a flash of pain hits his face - gosh he looks so silly.

What did he get himself into?