The usual order, the usual table, next to the front window—a usual morning. It’s clear, light-jacket weather. And there is a sex goddess in a Led Zeppelin t-shirt across the street.
I am onboard the U.S.S. Coffee, as usual. They have the best caramel soy lattes and poppy seed muffins around. You just have to ignore the lifesaver-shaped tables, the creepy sea captain statue by the door, eye-patched and giving the thumbs up, the seasonal drinks titled “Don’t Rock the Boat,” or “Ahoy Mateys!” and all the other ridiculous gimmicks. The U.S.S. Coffee is on the corner of Navy Avenue and Harbor Street. Hence, the nautical coffee experience. I live next door. But I might as well live here, surviving on caramel soy lattes and poppy seed muffins. Tina and most of the baristas know my order before I open my mouth. Caramel soy latte and a poppy seed muffin, please. Sometimes I get a double chocolate fudge muffin if I’m feeling restless. Variety is the spice of life.
Cars and cabs whizz by, multi-colored blurs. I sip my coffee and watch the waves of faces, briefcases, heels and cell phones surge down the sidewalk. They lap against the bricks of the apartment building across the street. The bricks are weathered, the front door painted a deep maroon. The window on the second floor squeaked open a moment ago. The Lois Lane body double is still gazing out and below. Now she turns to the mirror, smoothes her fly-aways, adjusts the baggy Led Zeppelin t-shirt she slept in. She rifles through a few cabinets and peeks in the shower. Not her bathroom? She splashes her face with water, smiles. Her teeth are diamonds.
I take a bite of my poppy seed muffin. A bit stale today. I knew it felt like a double chocolate fudge day. I can see Clark Kent in the adjacent room, lying in bed, hands clasped behind his head. He’s an action figure, that smirk permanently painted on his lips. His bare chest begs for an entire bottle of oil. He probably inherited his meat-slab jaw line from his father, probably gave a humble Student Body President acceptance speech while silently wondering if the extra responsibility would affect his performance as captain of his high school football team and as Seymour Krelborn in the fall production of “Little Shop of Horrors.” He is the superhero browsing the comedy section at Blockbuster and standing behind you at the check-out counter at Walgreens.
Lois struts into the bedroom, aglow with sex goddess-dom. Words exchanged, then a tongue-tied giggle. She regains her footing, looks at the bedside clock, plops down on the edge of the bed and scours a pile of rumpled clothes on the floor. She yanks up her nylons, her career-woman skirt. She is late and she says so. She turns her back to search for her I’m-sexy-but-take-me-seriously heels. Clark employs his ninja stealth powers and creeps across the bed, grabs Lois around the waist, hauling her back into bed. A mess of sheets and skin and limbs and smiles like diamonds.
Last bite of my muffin. A few minutes pass and I should really be going. I take a final peak. Lois has managed to assemble the various pieces of last night’s ensemble, covering the curves of her body in a boxy blazer etched with pink pinstripes. She has tied her hair into a low bun. It doesn’t disguise the love tangles that remain there. Clark shoves empty liquor bottles into a plastic bag.
Lois hurries out the bedroom door, briefcase in hand, disappears. Clark follows.
I toss my coffee cup in the trash, still regretting the poppy seed decision. The sea captain winks at me, brisk, street air hits my face. I look up and see Clark in the doorway, skin like caramel against the maroon door. Lois is on the curb, attempting to hail a cab as the waves of faces like hers and briefcases like hers and heels like hers and cell phones like hers buffet her. A yellow and black blur pulls up. She opens the door, glances back. A movie moment, they’re eyes meet. Electricity and butterflies and hearts pounding, one second frozen in time, everything in slow motion. All that stuff.
Clark lifts a hand to wave goodbye. She gets in and the yellow and black blur speeds down the street. Clark shivers a little, even though he is a superhero. He retreats into the warmth behind the maroon door.
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