The Cutter taps his box...

Some folk are conspicuous by their presence. Others by their absence.

This morning, The Cutter is one of the former. Sad, quiet and secretive in his bloody routine. In the right hand pocket of his non-descript jacket there's a small wooden box.

In the box there's a razor sharp blade, some antiseptic liquid and a pack of plasters.

He takes care of himself. His cuts heal quickly. Only his scars last. A roadmap to his journey. When the pressure cooker inside threatens to do a Vesuvius, he goes somewhere private and let's off some of the fiery red steam.

But sometimes just one slice isn't enough. Sometimes the pain hangs around, snarling, and the song remains the same.

Those are the times when he comes to Little Italy. To the only other being on God's twisted scorched earth who can do what the blade can't.

So here he is. Two tables away. With a large, dark Americano and Little Italy sitting by his side. Holding his hand. Stroking his fingers gently. Not saying a word.

Here he is. Head bowed. Eyes closed. Breathing deeply. Waiting for the emotional larva to settle. And it does. For a while.

He opens his eyes and looks at her. Healer. Protector. Friend. You ok now, she asks. He nods and tries for a smile. It's a piss poor attempt, but what the Hell.

She smiles, pats the back of his hand and stands up slowly. You go save the rest of the world, he says. I'm okay now.

Fifteen feet away, The Professor is writing formulas on the blackboard of his mind. He makes a mental note. Running out of chalk and where the Hell's the duster?

Nothing is ever where it should be, he observes. Just when he was about to help Little Italy save the world again with a cure for emotional distress.

He thinks he'll call it Vesuvius Goes To Sleep.

He looks towards The Cutter and wonders if he left the formula with him.

Behind the bar, Big Red is pouring a Double Espresso with an extra shot for The Mouse. Small, timid, nervous...and jumpy as hell.

She's here to get away from all the tomcats of the world. All the hunters who know her name. Know her game. Know her shame.

Little Italy looks at The Cutter then above him to the box on the wall. The box has its own method of keeping things at bay. Just like it has its own method of bringing things close.

Right now it chooses the latter. It reaches down and brings number 31 from the bottom of the special occasion stack.

The curtains open. One light illuminates the darkness of the stage. Cue the sound of an acoustic guitar. Cue the unmistakable voice of James Taylor, standing at the mike. Starts to sing.

The Cutter hears the words. Feels the words. Sees Little Italy smile at him. Hears her voice. You Got A Friend.

Reaches down. Taps his box. Closes his eyes.

You stay there for now, he whispers...

*********************************************************

The above is an extract from my book Love & Coffee (available from all good Amazons).

It's about the lives and loves of the customers in a city centre coffee shop.

And it's about the woman who takes care of them.

You'll find Love & Coffee (along with all my other books, Ad Lib, Ad Hoc, Ad Infinitum, and Heaven Help Us) waiting for you to fall in love with, any time of the day or night. Right here...

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Ad Lib: https://amzn.to/2kd4LKf.

Ad Hoc: https://amzn.to/2Nx8GL8

Ad Infinitum: https://amzn.to/3pof7Uq

Heaven Help Us: https://amzn.to/2nkQ1Jk

So grab a coffee, grab a chair, and grab a sneaky peek.

Then grab a copy for Christmas.