The Coffee Shop Stalker

A man in his 50’s, let’s call him Jonathan, frequents the most pretentious looking coffee shops in Halifax with the intent to write. He does actually put pen to paper now and again, that’s when he’s not staring out the window or being mindful of who’s coming in through the front door. Unfortunately much of what he writes is unintelligible but he feels it is helping him to overcome his anxiety. His demeanour is often pleasant while in public. Few would even say he struggles with mental illness after listening to him talk on one of his more coherent days. Speaking with an air of aristocratic sophistication he cautiously deflects any signs of snootiness. When asked what he does for a living he silently takes immense delight in saying that he teaches math at Dalhousie University, while cloaking his smug face by evenly stroking his beard with his thumb and index finger. Appealing to your sensitivity he is keen to show sentiment for any of your personal grievances, but once he has won your trust and confidence, he is inclined to periodically bite into you with scornful remarks. Intentionally oblivious to his interior complex to find fault in others, he secretly gloats whenever his slights should disempower the other. Yet fully aware in some kind of Freudian manner that the wounds he inflicts can only be healed by the inflector, he slowly carves out and subtly manipulates his acquaintances into a loyal minion. How could one in their right mind live out such duplicity without imploding. The answer resides in his coloured coded notebooks, each entry written with the sole purpose to purge his conscience from all trace of morality.

She lifts her glass cup slowly to her chin before raising her eyes to peruse the room. Every muscle under complete control. A reflection in the cup shows Jonathan steering at her with absolute focus. She ignores him, lowers her head to pick up the sentence she left off on. Proofreading her final paper to complete a Masters in Psychology requires every bit of her attention.

Meanwhile Jonathan studies her every detail. The slope in her firm bum has already alerted him before she took her seat some tables away from him. Her blood red lipstick also aroused the vampire in him. His fixation will remain on her for the next 2 hours of her visit. The fact that he has been there for nearly 5 hours doesn’t bother him one iota…

Click here to read the other parts of this short story.

About Philosopher Muse

An explorer of volition and soul, a song under a night sky and a dream that forever yearns to be.
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10 Responses to The Coffee Shop Stalker

  1. Great title! So many of us sit in cafés to write and observe others. I like the idea of writing about who’s in the room with us. This would make a great opening for a much longer piece. Thank you.

  2. zennfish says:

    I think I know this guy 😀

  3. Andrew Tulloch says:

    Great read! The detail really helped me feel like I was in the coffee shop with him. I have enjoyed your posts on creative writing advice. Are there any introductions to creative writing you can recommend? You clearly know your stuff in this area, and since I like to use stories to make arguments (as you know) it would really help me as well.

    • Thank you for your kind remarks. In regards to your question… nothing comes to mind in this present moment. For me, ‘creativity’ is that underlying current that runs through everything. How we conduct it varies on the quality of the soul. Some would blow a fuse if they were forced to dance with my muse, and there are those in whom my candle would snuff, and render my art as a diamond in the rough.

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