Starbucks Coffee
Sprinting towards the metro without visibly tilting his Starbucks cup was a difficult feat when there was no hot coffee in it. As stupid as it might seem he had to make a decent appearance, and even though he had months of training with this stupid cup he always seemed to forget that when he started running towards the metro. There was something about the knowledge that he couldn’t actually spill what was inside the cup that tried to make his whole body ignore the fact that it would be life threatening to forget.
Having walked on the surface along the metro line a million times he knew what kind of majestic buildings were up there. Buildings that long since had forgotten their importance and were surrounded by the drones of popular culture and symbols of civilization’s downfall. He found it ironic that the coffee he held so gently between his fingers was of the very same origin as these pestering nuisances which he focused his hearts dismay upon. How strange that the feeling of this cup made him feel was, especially when it was unbearably hot with coffee, tranquillity. The coarse material suited his soul, he had decided, and he had to admit that the constant scratch just below his lover lip loved to be scratched by the edge of the plastic cover of the lid and it’s artificial feeling against his skin and reddish beard.
He had smiled and started whistling (on a tune he could not remember the name of) as he and the hundreds around him strolled right past the military guards at Port Royal to board the metro. They had held a young hip-hop looking boy, possibly with heritage from the Middle East, and questioned him on the open street, in what seemed to be against his will. As he had went past them he had wondered whether it had helped that he flourished his long blonde hair, and had perhaps too conspicuous combed his hand through his hair in the most movie-looking fashion he could muster.
At 16:57 he entered RER B at Port-Royal. Went past Luxembourg, Cluny – La Sorbonne, St.Michel – Notre Dame, and in the end arrived to Chatelet – Les Halles, where he went of. No coffee cup in hand.
”We are sorry to interrupt this program with this important notice: Today at 17:13 a bomb went of at Gare du Nord. The police and National Guard estimates over a hundred killed and more hurt in the accident. Police believes it to be a terrorist action, but have not yet received any confirmation from any group behind this act, and can see no clear motive. Anyone who might have had relatives…” He turned off the TV, whistling the same song as before. “Singing in the Rain” he told himself, with a surprised look.
