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Message-ID: <53155asstr$1140765003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Kenny Gamura" <turtlemeat69@hotmail.com>
Mime-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} We All Want Something Beautiful {Gamera} (nosex)
Lines: 185
Date: Fri, 24 Feb 2006 02:10:03 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

                          Disclaimer

This is just a story, okay.  It is meant for grown ups,
however the area of the world you live in defines it.
Nothing like this ever happened and nothing like it ever
should, get it.  It is completely something from my
imagination.  This means it belongs to me, its creator, not
to you, even if you live in China.  So don't republish or
repost or anything like that without me saying it's all
right.  Formating was done in Courier New, so that is what
it looks best in.  I spell like crap.  suzee did her best
to fix it, but their is only so much she can do.

Thank You and Good Day,
Kenny N Gamera

turtlemeat69@hotmail.com
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gamera/www
http://storiesonline.net

               We All Want Something Beautiful
                             by
                       Kenny N Gamera

I exchange four crumpled sheets of thick paper covered in
green ink with the brown eyed, brown haired girl working
the counter for a tall, decaf latte with light foam.  I
also receive shiny metal discs.  I let those drop into a
handy, empty mug sitting next to the cash register and
listen to the clinks as each strikes bottom.  Grabbing my
new possession, I retreat to the cafe proper.

I plop down into a very battered, very old, and very shabby
couch, slumping at an angle that would let me keep a half
eye on the counter girl.  She moves away to the far end of
her counter and drops onto a tall stool.  Her cheek rests
on a fist as she flips through a standard young woman's
magazine.  I can hear the pages rustle even where I sit.
With a noticeable lack of joy, she merely glances at each
page in turn, her eyes half closed.

After taking a long drink, I place the heavy glass mug down
on a beat up old coffee table.  My hand slips into my
jacket's inside pocket and extracts my handheld.  I write:

      He entered the coffee shop and ordered a drink.
      He sat where he could watch the brown eyed,
      brown haired girl working the counter.  He
      caught her eye, and she smiled at him.  He
      smiled back at her, and as he took a long sip
      of his coffee he winked at her, making her
      giggle.

With a sigh, I switch the handheld off and stare at the
dark screen.  I flip it on again and stare at the two or
three words I have added.  I ponder what other words I
could mate with them with any success.  I turn it off again
and slide the, as yet unlost, stylus into its cubby.

I place it on the tabletop, scant inches from the bottom of
the mug.  My elbows rest on my knees; my face rests in my
hands.  I sigh before lifting my head up.  I scan the
handful of people in the single room.

In the corner furthest from my seat, a girl sits next to a
couple guys who play a game of chess.  She is maybe
college-aged, maybe high school-aged.  I sometimes find it
hard to see the difference.  The guys smoke, never a good
sign of anyone's true age.

The girl wears a long, bargain-store skirt with knee length
athletic socks and old style canvas tennis shoes on her
feet.  She stares at the face of each player in turn with
the movements of his pieces.  One player has a beard, a
goatee cut like a cartoon beatnik.  The other player has
wire framed glasses with a long, black coat draped over the
back of his chair.  An anti-war button adorns the black
beret over his head and ponytailed hair.

I have seen her here before.  Her deep brown eyes
compliment her black dyed hair, her dark makeup, and her
pale skin.  A small ring pierces her eyebrow.  A second
one, a thin, fine wire, wraps around her lower lip.  I
could almost make it out even with the distance, as she
smiles and laughs with her friends.  She sees me watching,
then glances away.  The smile loses intensity.

I quickly turn my attention to something else.

The wall.

The small, two-person tables along it are empty, as are the
tables between it and me.  The local student station plays
over the speakers. The young, bright voice of the DJ
competes with nothing.  She babbles about the coming
evening and the parties and the bar scene and how the best
music for both will be on her station.

I look again at my hand held.  I think about my story and
about what the main character needs to do to have the young
counter girl join him in bed.  I turn it on and retrieve
the stylus.

      He siped his drink with purpose, as he read his
      novel.  Between pages he looked over to the
      counter girl doing her homework.  He caught her
      with the occasional glance in his direction.

I drop it and head to the rest room.  I lower the seat and
sit.  As urine runs into the bowl, I stare at the graffiti
on the chalkboard mounted on the wall.  Nothing fun enough
to add to the conversation comes to mind.  I stand. I
flush. I wash.  I leave.

The bargain store girl still sits in the corner.  A plot
flutters through my head.  A teacher, a student, an affair,
another stupid state law.  A romance doomed.  I file it
away for that someday around the corner.

I return to my hand held and my latte.  The latte has grown
cold.  I take a long drink, and then reach for the handheld
and my story.

The character still sits there in his seat.  Still smiling
at his giggling counter girl, he waits for me to give him
something interesting to do.

I stare at my counter girl.  She sits statue still except
for the turning of the pages.  I glance back at the chess
game.  I twiddle the stylus across the screen enough so my
lead finishes his still warm drink

      He went to the counter for a refill.  The girl
      was watching and rushed to meet him at the
      counter.  She made his drink as they trade
      small talk.  He asked her name.

      "Lyla."

      "Pretty name for a pretty girl."  She blushed.
      "You go to the college?"

      "Yes," Lyla answered.  "I'm...

I look up and try to think.  I can't remember what the girl
had mumbled when I had asked her major course of study
several weeks ago.  It may have been psychology, but then
again, maybe not.  I decide to make the girl in the story a
history major.  That was safe.  I was almost certain that
was not what she had said.  And no one majors in history
anymore anyway.

I take a gulp of cold coffee.  I write another word or two.
For the most part, others fail to follow them.  I place the
hand held on the table, again.  Inside, I debate on giving
up and catching the bus for home.

A college girl walks in.  She is dressed in sweats and a
loaded down backpack over one shoulder.  A worn textbook
sticks from a loose zipper.  She heads to the register.
With a slow maneuver, she slides the pack along her arm.  A
wad of green paper appears from the front pouch.

She stands near my height, average for a guy, dishwater
blonde streaked with golden strands.  Her clothing hides a
figure not quite ample and very easily pleasant.  White
skin shows below her rolled up sleeves.

While she waits to be noticed by the counter girl, she
looks over the coffee shop.  She turns towards me.  I
smile.  She smiles back for a mere second, then turns to
see if she is going to be waited on. After a moment, the
counter girl looks up from her magazine.

The counter girl plods over.  When the college girl
finishes giving her order, they exchange an empty mug for
pieces of paper.  She takes the mug over to the vacuum
jugs, where she fills the mug.  She sits at a table between
the wall and me; her back faces me.

I look down at my hand held.  Words haven't come yet and
probably won't.  I sense it isn't worth fighting, today.  I
swallow my coffee in three huge gulps and gather my things.

No one sees me leave.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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