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                                 Casual/sdwlkcaf
                             Bill Westerman   (c) 1990
                                 Sidewalk Cafe, The
                                                   
             The air was hot and muggy, and even though the sun had begun to set a while 
              back the passing cars and concrete sidewalk kept everything unbearable.  
              Even the customers sitting and eating dinner under the Cinzano umbrellas 
             were continually mopping up sweat with little square cocktail napkins.  The 
              cold air from the kitchen was my only salvation and I would linger in the 
                  oasis until I could sense the customers beginning to question my 
              whereabouts, appearing for a cursory refilling of glasses only to retreat 
                again.  The streetlights all clicked on at once with a buzzing sound, 
                casting their amber-white light across the tables and cigarette smoke.
                                                   
                 As the night progressed the high school kids took their Camaros and 
              Mustangs and headed off to the movies or the late-night softball games as 
             the neighborhood slowly regained its composure.  Older couples strolled the 
                area, stopping off at one cafe or another and ordering their coffee, 
                decaffinated, with half and half.  The two that always took the table 
              nearest the street wearily got up and ambled off towards their apartment, 
             leaving the habitual full ashtray covering a healthy tip.  The peacefulness 
             was briefly interrupted as an ambulance blew by full-tilt, heading off into 
                                     the distance sirens wailing.
                                                   
                Eventually the sky lost all hints of sunlight and the sidewalk tables 
             emptied one by one, allowing me to rest for a moment as my single remaining 
              table full of Spaniards engaged itself in an animated conversation, arms 
             flailing and gesticulating wildly, beer sitting sweating and getting warm.  
               I looked across the street to the Cafe Italia, with the "I" in "Italia" 
             blinking on and off as the neon tube went bad, when I caught a glimpse of a 
             new waitress standing wearily behind the counter slowly counting her tips, 
                         the neon reflected in the display cases of the cafe.
                                                   
              She would exit to the sidewalk every few minutes and check her customers, 
                filling a cup of coffee or taking away a plate, only to stand in the 
             doorway for a moment and look off down the street before disappearing back 
             into the cafe.  Her medium-length wavy bleached-blond hair moved strangely, 
              witness to damage from repeated styling.  Even her clothes looked rough, 
              her knee-length jeans fighting her as she walked, her white t-shirt half 
              untucked and hanging crooked, but all the elements brought her a certain 
                       exotic aire, made her look strong-willed and confident.
                                                   
               The cooler night air began to appear, rustling through the trees as it 
              wandered down the street and through the cafe.  After the Spaniards went 
              onward, we brought in the sidewalk furniture and turned off the exterior 
              lights, closing shop for another day.  I was still wide awake and the now 
              refreshing air begged me to stay outdoors for a while more, to go over to 
             the Italia and chat with the owner, sit at one of those black marble tables 
             and drink a strong cappuchino.  The waitress was clearing her last sidewalk 
               table as I went inside, carefully balancing plates and glasses on a big 
               gray Rubbermaid tray as she glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.
                                                   
             After a brief exchange of dialog with "Grandi," as I called him, I sat down 
               at the corner table of the now empty cafe, facing the window so I could 
             watch the street as the new waitress put away the last dishes and wiped off 
              the tables.  She looked like someone who was in a losing battle with life 
             after too many bad experiences, but willing to continue the fight.  Grandi 
                locked the door and shut down most of the lights, pointing to the new 
              waitress and saying, "Hey, meet Ellen, she's a-starting tonight; she's a 
             new in town" as he disappeared into the kitchen to help his wife finish up 
             the cleaning.  The expresso machine complained loudly as it dripped out the 
                                        last cup of the night.
                                                   
               Ellen came over to my table, setting down her coffee, cigarettes, and a 
              couple of left-over pastries.  For some reason I had expected her face to 
               be different, soft in contrast to her harsh persona, but it also looked 
             rebellious.  She offered me one of the pastries and we chatted together as 
             we ate; for some strange reason she attracted me greatly, she was gutsy and 
              brash but at the same time coquettishly feminine.  Grandi had finished up 
              in the back and from habit I knew it was time to take off.  The crisp air 
              was a sharp contrast to that of the cafe as Ellen and I walked out to the 
                                        now deserted sidewalk.
                                                   
               When I found out that she lived in the old district about a mile East I 
             offered to give her a ride home, realizing that she probably wouldn't take 
             me up on it as I gestured towards my motorcycle, but she accepted anyway.

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             I rocked the bike off its footpeg and started it up, listening to the motor 
             complain after sitting for ten hours in the sun.  Ellen got on and grabbed 
              me around the waist with her left hand, holding her cigarette out of the 
             wind the right and pressing up against my back as we raced away.  The city 
               streets were devoid of anything at this hour, only cardboard boxes and 
              empty cups blowing around in strange little whirlpools of wind and empty 
                                buses wandering through their routes.
                                                   
               Her apartment was old and small, up on the third floor, all the windows 
              open and the breeze blowing through the broken screens.  She went off to 
               the kitchen for the beer she had promised me as I settled down into the 
             couch, feeling the decades of life that the apartment had seen, the stains 
               on the wall from previous occupants and the scars in the hardwood floor 
             from long ago.  Ellen turned on the TV and sat down next to me, a six-pack 
             in hand, kicking off her shoes and leaning to my shoulder.  Some old serial 
               was playing on the tube, black and white images reflecting off the few 
                 things she had in the room, as her hair moved with the summer wind.
                                                   
               I put an arm around her as she pushed up even closer to me, holding her 
             tightly and feeling her body move with every breath.  She was watching the 
            television half-heartedly, her legs curled up under her like a small child.  
             After a few minutes of silence she looked up at me and for the first time I 
             noticed her intense blue eyes.  She glanced down to her cigarette and after 
             taking a long drag put it out and looked up at me, her pouty lips betraying 
             her inner emotions.  I reached down for her leg and felt her quiver with my 
                touch, move even closer to me as we kissed, at first tentatively and 
               quickly with force.  I pushed her back and she grabbed me, running her 
                     hands up and down my back as we rubbed our bodies together.
                                                   
              A quick motion and she removed my shirt, leaving my work-tired chest bare 
             to the room, kissing me down my neck and then holding me tight.  Her blond 
                 hair fell against the cushion behind her, spreading out broadly and 
              contrasting with the darkness of the room.  With her help we removed her 
             shirt and tank-top bra, leaving two small round breasts for my attentions.  
               She too had worked most of the afternoon and night, and our worn bodies 
               ached for release, for an excuse to be tired and dirty.  I alternately 
                kissed her and ran my fingers across her stomach, teasing toward her 
             breasts until finally catching them with my mouth, one by one, adoring and 
                                  worshiping her with every motion.
                                                   
               Our pants huddled together in one little mass at the foot of the sofa, 
               liberating our bodies and letting the sexual tension build higher.  She 
              rolled me over onto my back and moved to the floor, deftly taking me into 
               her mouth and edging me slowly on, the black and white images of the TV 
             reflecting on the ceiling and across her smooth back.  I wanted her, wanted 
             her next to me, holding me, pushing me, being tough and charming.  She was 
                strong, in control of the situation and I was being controlled by her 
                desires, her breasts heaving with her respiration and her legs slowly 
                                 beginning to shake from excitement.
                                                   
             We rolled off the couch onto the floor, pushing the makeshift coffee table 
                out of the way and laughing as the beer cans rolled across the room, 
               rocking our bodies together in unison, her breasts in my hands and her 
             hands searching my back, my arms, my chest.  A rumble of thunder sounded in 
             the distance as the wind picked up, signs of an upcoming storm.  I writhed 
             with her, feeling the warmth of her clit as she rocked against my fingers, 
             the tiredness of her face overcome with pleasure, a smile appearing on sad 
                lips.  Ellen grabbed me and pulled me close, insistent upon immediate 
              satisfaction, begging me with her eyes and pushing her hips against mine.
                                                   
               I could feel her warmth slide around me, at first uncertain of the long-
             awaited intrusion but then opening eagerly to my faster strokes.  The sound 
              of us, of our bodies, mixed with the rain now beginning to fall outside, 
               the thunder every moment coming closer.  I could feel her begin to lose 
             control of her emotions, to open herself to pure pleasure, and my intensity 
             increased as the same time, rocking harder and breathing deeply as she rode 
              up and down me, tightening her inner muscles as I retracted and loosening 
              as I re-entered each time.  Finally the outside world became immaterial, 
               the TV, the apartment, the rain, and we exploded together there on the 
              living room floor, abruptly lessening the pace and returning to stillness.
                                                   
                       "Hold on a second, I gotta close the windows." she said.
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