Is This It

A Short Story
By Madori Renae

She loved this place. She enjoyed every unspeakable moment of the time spent here
among the varying smells. There was the smell of coffee, both fresh and scalding at the
brewing of every new pot. There was the smell of cigarette smoke forever clung to the
sticky walls, the ashtrays at each table, and the occasional elderly gentleman whose sweet
smell of tobacco would never leave him and it was secretly wondered if when his
grandchildren embraced him, they remembered the smell as she remembered the familiar
smell of this place.
His car always smelled the same way, only sweeter. He had said the only other
element that added to the balance was his previous use of a hanging car freshener. It had
been one of those common ones that looked like a colored maple leaf. She even
wondered what color it had been. She wanted to know everything about this strange and
fascinating boy. But the scent ornament was no more and now that he had turned
eighteen, he pulled out a cigarette more often because they were more easily at his
disposal. Her mother smoked and she abhorred the act, though admittedly she had done it
a few times herself to ease stress. But there was something special about the way he
smoked. She would never tell him, but she secretly liked watching him smoke. Together
with the way he looked and dressed and the way he spoke, he reminded her of a musician
she might see in The Strokes. Consequently, this was his favorite band and she always
wondered if the simulation was intentional. There were a lot of things she wondered
about him. One thing she hated about the world they both lived in was that everyone
spoke of keeping it real and being yourself, but beneath those guidelines were unwritten
rules, and within those was one that prevented her from asking certain questions. There
had been times when she asked anyway. But he told her she thought about things too
much.
They came here often. Both were avid drinkers of coffee and enjoyed a conversation
over the steaming mugs. She had only recently started doing this. She was a young girl
just beginning to see the world with new eyes and she was glad to have him as her guide.
He was practically a veteran, though only three months older than she. You could tell by
the way he communicated with the waiter in his dry monotone that spoke of such
countless instances of experience that he had become bored with the cordialities. And by
the way he sat down and looked perfectly at ease. She liked watching him. She knew the
first day she had met him that they wouldnt be friends for very long. She also knew that
he would appear again and again in stories that she would write and he would always
play the same person with a different name. There was something so entirely different
about him. She knew there were others of his kind out there, but not in a place like this.
They collected in places like New York City or Chicago, maybe L.A., but not here. She
wondered how someone born and raised here could turn out like this. But for the most
part, she didnt care how he had gotten here because it only led to the conclusion of him
leaving, which he spoke of often. She was only glad she had the chance to be near him
before he went off and became one of those people she would always wish she could be
but never would. That was his destiny and her fate.
 Their mugs were filled and each pulled them closer. He inhaled deeply, and muttered,
I love coffee. She laughed once and reached for the sugar. She tipped it over and they
both watched the steady stream of sugar cascade into her mug where it immediately
disappeared. After a few seconds, he said, Do you want any coffee with that sugar?
She laughed, Shut up, and continued pouring. When she was satisfied with the
amount that had fallen into her cup, she started to stir.
Sugar just ruins it, he said for the sole purpose of irritating her.
She took a timid sip, and said, I dont understand how you can drink it black. Coffee
is bitter; its supposed to be made into something delicious.
Its delicious as it is, he said.
She shook her head, already done with this trivial argument.
Its an acquired taste, he concluded. She could hardly stand the way he always had
to have the last word. Though sometimes he strived for the last expression; countless
times he had ended a subject with a roll of the eyes or a bored sigh. Somehow this
marked the end of whatever they had been talking about. She was an individual who
typically spoke a lot, much more than the person on the other end of the conversation,
unless of course she was having a conversation with herself, which she also did often.
But even though she did much of the talking, he still held in his possession the capability
to shut her down and end her endless outpour of words. In this way, he made her feel as if
she talked too much. And this made her nervous.
She was always nervous. She constantly fidgeted, or looked around the room because
she couldnt maintain eye contact. Sometimes he picked up on her uneasiness and
sometimes he did not. She enjoyed the moments that he didnt notice because it was then
that she could be seen as a regular person. Not a child or a silly girl, but his equal. The
nervousness was something that could not be helped. She had been this way for years.
But when she was with him, a strange seed of hope seemed to grow inside of her. He
made her think that with enough experience, she could be normal. When she left him, the
high wore off and she realized the inevitable truth: she would never be normal. This was
most dissatisfying because she wanted to be a member of his life, but she couldnt be.
Not for long.
They both realized with horror what was playing on the juke box. A whiny country
song peeled across the speakers and they both sighed. It was a heavy sigh filled with
impatience for people who could actually enjoy this kind of music, pity for the people
who dare called it music at all, and anger for the people who had put it on.
Oh my god, he said in his characteristic way that always made me laugh.
Too bad we dont have any money. She said. Im pretty sure they have the
Smashing Pumpkins on there.
No, they dont. Besides, the Pumpkins suck.
Almost every old jukebox has Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. I love the
Pumpkins.
Punch you in the face, he sneered. What he meant was: Stop talking about them
because the Smashing Pumpkins suck and how dare you think otherwise.
She knew he had a very particular taste in music. He enjoyed rock with a simple and
humble mission. This included The Strokes, The Vines, The White Stripes, and Black
Rebel Motorcycle Club, among others. Though recently he had gotten into some hippie
music and she feared he would start smoking other things besides tobacco. He already
gave frequent lectures on how weed wasnt bad for people but she refused to hear any of
it. He thought he knew everything.
She decided to make a comeback. Well, Im sure they dont have The Strokes on
there.
He swallowed the last of his coffee and set down the mug. Thats because no one
appreciates good music anymore.
Thats the truth, she agreed. Her taste wasnt as specialized as his. She could even
be occasionally caught listening to something that might be found on the radio. But she
had strong and loyal roots in musical heroes that the world had heard little of. As did he,
and they were both glad that they had that in common.
She watched as his face became hazy for a split second while he lit another cigarette
and a plume of smoke rose in front of him. He sucked on it once, deeply, and then rested
it over the dull green ashtray. She watched the particular curve his fingers assumed to
hold the stick, watched the ginger flick of his fingertip to clear the ashes from the end.
Then she took in his entire image. He watched her watch him. He examined her
expression and found something interesting, something he couldnt decipher. This is why
he liked her.
So why The Strokes? she asked.
He leaned back and sighed gently, as if settling in to tell some children a good story
from his past. My cousin used to listen to them, along with The Vines, the White
Stripes, all those guys. I started listening to everything he did. I got burnt out on The
Vines, burnt out on The Stripes, but The Strokesman, I couldnt get burnt out on
them.
She smiled, because she understood him. Thats how it is for me. With Showbread,
she said.
And even now, when I hear a Strokes song come on, its like Oh, now this is a good
song.
She nodded. I know, she agreed. Music was powerful.
The waiter appeared as soon as her mug was emptied. More coffee, guys? he asked.
He inched his cup forward and said, Yeah, man. Thanks.
After a couple of minutes, an old song called Take It Easy came on. I love this
song, she exclaimed. A flood of memories infiltrated her mind.
You were really loud there for a second, he commented with a smile.
I dont care, she said. Would you like me to yell for everyone to hear?
He set down his cup. That wont be necessary. Neither of them could keep a straight
face.
No, I mean I really like this song. I remember on my way back home from Florida, I
listened to this song the whole way. I was high on life then. I felt like a new person, like I
had seen all there was to see and it was this great feeling, like I could do anything. And
when I listened to this song, I knew that the guy who wrote it was feeling the same way
when he made it and I thought, when I write songs, I want them to be this way.
He looked into my eyes and sipped his coffee. After a moment, he said Im proud of
you.
She smiled gleefully. Compliments from him were rare and they never ceased to fill
her with happiness. People like him had all the power in the world over people like her,
just by a few simple choices of words. She wondered if he knew that. Surely not, or he
wouldnt mock her all the time.
He leaned forward and put his shoes over hers. She giggled. He almost always had this
smirk on his face. It was one of the things she liked most about him. But she knew in that
moment, when the weight of his feet were upon hers and that smile was on his face, that
this would be the last time she ever enjoyed his company. It filled her with sadness, with
nostalgia for the times spent here though they hadnt even ended yet. But she didnt show
it. She just went on laughing. When she was with others that was what she did. Whenever
she had these moments where for a certain second she was quite sure the sky was going
to fall, she just laughed and laughed. It had nothing to do with that old phrase Just
smile. It wasnt a way to shy away from oppressing thoughts, but rather her way to keep
herself together in public. She had a habit of falling apart and she didnt want him to
know that. Quite frankly she didnt want anyone to know, but especially not him. People
did not like broken people. They reminded them too much of themselves.
She noticed he scanned the menu for the third time. Im really hungry.
Then buy something to eat.
He looked around exasperatedly. I already have to buy your coffee.
She gave him a look. I told you I didnt have money before we came here.
He smiled. Sometimes she swore he only kept her around so he could mock her and
then celebrate his victory over gullible people like her. She wished she could show him
that she wasnt as gullible as he thought. She just had trouble thinking clearly around
him. Obviously if she possessed a shred of common sense around him, she wouldnt be
around him at all. Her parents wouldnt approve, at least, of that she was sure.
It was like she was transformed into a different person around him. She felt more like
herself, though that wasnt always a good thing. She was more afraid and talkatively
giddy, but she feltcute. Likable. Apparently he agreed because he frequently invited
her along on these adventures. Sometimes she felt that if she stayed in his life she would
become his bracelet. A pretty little thing on his wrist that served the specific function of
making him laugh and listening to him, something he could show others but didnt
particularly admire himself. Something casual and conveniently forgettable that would
only be noticed when sought to be used. She was used to being a center of idolization for
the opposite sex, and perhaps that was why she couldnt understand his disinterest. It
made her want to be everything, or at least the particular something that he wanted, but
he seemed to look at her and see nothing desirable. But she enjoyed the company
nonetheless. She enjoyed any company, for she often had none at all.
A waitress with blond hair emerged through the swinging kitchen doors. She caught
her eye. I love your jacket, she commented.
Thanks, she said with a polite smile. Then she turned to him and said, She hasnt
seen my pants.
He shook his head. I dont like your pants. I just decided.
She slung her legs out in front of her and examined her purple pants splattered with
white bleach spots. Oh but these are my lucky pants, she whined in mock
dissatisfaction. Why dont you like them? Theyre purple.
He looked down at her legs painted with the skin-tight pants. Theyre too purple.
But who wears purple pants? Purple is fun.
Pants arent supposed to be purple.
 Pants can be whatever you want, she protested. And if youre someone like me
who doesnt even like wearing pants, they better be something special that you enjoy
wearing.
Right, he agreed sardonically. Because youd hate to have the sudden urge to take
your pants off because you hate them so much.
She laughed, accidentally sputtering the coffee she had just sucked into her mouth.
Exactly, she said. Thats why its important to like your pants.
He seemed to be done with the conversation, but after a decisive second, he said, I
still dont like your pants.
She frowned and shrugged her shoulders, stating passively: You know? I knew you
would hate these pants when I put them on this morning. Maybe thats why I wore them.
He said nothing more about the purple pants for a couple minutes, during which time
they played games with their eyes. These unspoken games always made her laugh. He
knew there was something particular about his face that made her giggle and he abused
the power.
Punch you in the face, he finally said. This was his signature phrase, especially with
her. Literally translated, it meant something like: I do not feel like admitting that you are
right so I will simply speak this phrase that expresses my exasperation with you because I
have lost interest in your opinion upon realizing that I cannot challenge it. Or something
like that. Like many phrases, they had different meaning at different times.
After a moment she said, Some people think theyre always right.
He drilled with a stare that was somehow knowing, affectionate, and jovial all at the
same time. Others are quiet and uptight, he replied.
The unspoken word that followed: Touche.
They got their mugs refilled again and settled back comfortably in the booth. She
breathed in deep and her toes squirmed inside of her blue sneakers. She could never tell
him how happy being with him made her, how hopeful he made her feel. Despite how
much he made fun at her expense, she felt she might be falling in love with him and all
his arrogance and selfishness. He made her feel alive. It wasnt that life before him felt
dead, it was more like life since him had been more fast-paced, emotional, and real. For a
moment her life didnt feel called to a higher purpose, but rather her mission was to
simply live. Good god, what was wrong with her? She might as well join him and the
weed with all this delusional talk. She would never abandon her faith. Certainly not for
him, no matter how wonderful he made her feel. In fact, if the two couldnt coincide, she
was certain one of them had to be false and there was only one of the two she would
question. Unfortunately for all of his good qualities, she knew she couldnt trust him.
There was something in his eyes, something about the way he was so entirely calculated
that told her he lived for one person and one person only and that person was himself. It
was sad, in a way, because she knew he didnt believe in love, and with that narcissism
that ran so deep within him, he wouldnt be able to see it even if it was right in front of
him. She wanted him to feel it. She wanted him to feel that contentment. Though she had
never felt it herself, she knew it wasnt a pursuit of happiness because those sorts of
things are never fulfilling. No, it was contentment that people were after. And she
thought, she hoped, that love would be one of those few things that actually possessed the
peace of contentment. But she could only hope. What did she know about love?
 I only have two Vicodin pills left, he said out of the blue. This was how their
conversations worked. New subjects were started as strands of interest twisted around in
his mind. This was why some of the topics were completely unrelated to the topics that
preceded them.
You shouldnt be taking them anyway, she said. You are not in any pain.
They are wonderful little pills.
Ironically, she decided to say. I liked you best when you were on those. Its a
shame theyre almost gone.
Are you just saying that? he asked.
She examined his expression and decided that he didnt care what her answer was
either way, which probed her to be mean. Possibly. She looked into her halfway filled
coffee cup. She stirred it once and watched the liquid twirl around the spoon. Have you
ever wondered why they call coffee black? Its actually brown.
He smirked. She knew he liked the way she always noticed stupid things, even if he
thought is was unnecessary and dumb. I suppose like most things, he said. The
description doesnt always match the definition.
She was pleased with this answer and thought to say, Yes. Kind of like God.
He looked at her and she could see the message of warning in his face. If only he
knew that just because she could discern the unspoken message he tried to send, that
didnt mean she would play along. She had a will of her own.
Seriously, she continued. Most of the things people believe about God are opposite
of who He really is.
He leaned forward. Religion was made to control people, he said, stating the
opinion shed heard many times before.
Its not a religion, she replied. Its a
Relationship, he interjected. So Ive heard. But how can you know God?
I hesitated. It was a good question. Well, the Bible tells us who He is and thats one
way you get to know Him. But you also have to have communication. You have to pray.
He shook his head. Thats ridiculous. Religion is a hoax. You cant talk to God. Have
you ever actually heard him to speak to you?
She knew he was mocking her, but she didnt care. Instead of answering his question,
she said, Why do we have to hear him with our ears? Why does everyone want to bring
God down to our level? If God was like us, he wouldnt be sovereign anymore. He
created us and he loves us, but we have to take the leap of faith.
If God loves us so much and he wants everyone to believe, why doesnt he just show
himself?
If he was tangible, where would faith be? Thats too easy. Of course we are going to
believe in something we can see. Weve been trained to trust our eyes. Wed be fools to
deny what our eyes can see. God wants us to make the choice to trust him.
He drilled her with his eyes. Fine, he said. Youre right.
But she knew he didnt believe her anymore than he had last time theyd had this
conversation. Let me ask you a question. Do you believe India is real?
Of course.
Why? Have you been there? Have you seen it?
I just know its there, he said, growing annoyed.
 But why? Because other people who have seen it told you it was there? Because its
documented as existing in a book?
You cant even compare God to India. He said, catching her drift.
Why not? Its the same idea. You cannot favor atheists who say there is no god when
there are just as many people who say there is one.
Im not an atheist, he said evenly.
I know. Youre an agnostic. But whats the difference. In the end
Talking about hell is a scare tactic, he spat. Everyone uses it.
She looked at him with a serious expression. I am not trying to scare you. Im just
saying, what if youre wrong?
You know what? he said, getting spirited. I just want to live my life. I want to be
ninety years old on my death bed and look back at my life and say Man, I had a hell of a
good time.
She smiled. That philosophy sounded ideal, but it was false. Human nature simply
didnt work that way. So its all about you, then? You have a problem living your life
for anyone else but yourself?
Its not selfish. Its
You just said you want to live for fun. I said plainly.
He looked at me levelly. I guess youre right. Im just a selfish dick who wants to do
something other than spend my whole life waiting on something I cant be sure is real.
She nodded. None of this was soaking in. This was the problem with nihilists. They
were so sure of their belief in lack of belief that they were not open to anything.
I dont want to talk about this anymore, he said. Youre not going to convert me.
I wasnt trying to convert you, She said softly. I was just trying to get you to
consider some things. Its important to question what you believe. I question my beliefs
all the time. The more you refute your own argument, the more certain you can be of its
validity.
He nodded, and she knew he agreed with that much. Okay, he said.
Okay, she echoed. And God disappeared from their conversation.
Neither of them was sure where to lead the conversation after that. He just stared at
her, and she stared back, for the most part, aside from the occasional glance about the
room to keep herself from laughing or getting too anxious.
After a couple of idle minutes, he puffed his cig and muttered, Punch you in the
face. This time, the phrase meant: Way to kill the conversation. And she wasnt sure
what to say to that, so she just smiled as pleasantly as she could. This made him laugh.
When are you going to get your license? he asked.
She shrugged. Whenever I learn to drive, I guess.
He shook his head. Just go take it. You learn as you go.
She shook her head in reply. Thats stupid. You have to learn the skill before you
take the test that tests your skills.
Punch you in the face, he said. You think about it too much.
Thats probably true, I said. I overthink everything.
Well, just stop, he said.
Its easier said than done.
No.you just.stop. he said slowly, as if she were five years old. His smirk told
her he was joking, at least to some extent.
 She laughed to ease the tension that her expression surely portrayed. I cant, she
said. I guess its kind of like a habit. Or maybe its a girl thing.
He smothered the end of the cigarette. Maybe, he said. But you think about stupid
stuff way more than any girl Ive ever met.
I think about important stuff too, she defended.
Thats not the point, he said. He cradled his mug in two hands and breathed deep of
the smell wafting above the cup. He really did love coffee as much as he said.
Writers have to think a lot, she decided to say. I try to put every experience into
words.
He leaned forward until he was only inches from her face. She tried to keep her
breathing steady and prevent her knees from trembling. How would you put thisme
and youright now, in words? he asked.
She thought for a moment. Frustration, she said first, to make him laugh and to
quietly express her disdain for his inability to value another persons opinion. And
bliss.
They locked eyes for a moment and she wished for a split second that they were
somewhere darker, somewhere colder, and that his intention in leaning forward was to
kiss her. She could almost feel his lips on hers.
But he broke the severity of their closeness and leaned back, never breaking the stare.
She leaned back too. She realized in that moment that this was it. This was all they would
ever be. Friends: one thirsting for more, and the other hoping there wasnt too much
expected.
She would not be able to live with that brutal truth, which was one reason she would
not remain his friend. She was not accustomed to the position of best friend when it came
to males, especially ones she sincerely liked. She was the thirsty one, and he was the
uninterested one. The indifferent one. She was quite sure if she chose to blatantly express
her feelings in making the first move, or even with seduction, he wouldnt even flinch.
She had fallen in and out of love with many guys in her short seventeen years, but he was
the second of only two she dreamed of seducing. She felt unattractive and plain now that
she was sure of his real feelings toward her. It always worked this way, didnt it? The
boys she held contempt for followed her around like lost dogs, and on the occasional
chance she found something she liked, it taunted her mind, and tripped her into falling in
love with someone who did not want her.
She inhaled deeply. She caught the overwhelming essence of coffee and cigarettes and
breakfast food being fried. She would never come to this place again with him. This was
the last time they would be seen together, though she sensedhopedthat they would
remain side by side, at least for a little while, in their minds before their connection that
had seemed so natural and nakedly pure slipped into the subconscious.
Later, when they were about to go their separate ways, he said, See you tomorrow.
No, she said confidently. I think this will be the last time.
He looked at her, a smirk playing at his lips. He enjoyed toying with her. Okay, he
said decisively. See you tomorrow.
She rooted a fine line on her lips. I was serious, she said. This is it.
Is this it? he asked. She caught the double meaning and said nothing.
She realized in that moment that she was just a stupid, lonely girl who would never get
to have him, never get to say he was hers. He loved the attention he got from her, but
more than that he loved the power of being able to deny her. His ego was his god, she
realized. Shed met many boys like this and had almost misjudged him as someone apart
from that senseless crowd, but sure enough he was just like all the rest. All boys were like
thissubscribers to their own sick egos. The result was the same but different in all of
them, kind of like religions that sought to serve the same thing but each had a certain way
of doing it. His ego had taken its last stand against her. She loved him and he had the
power that entailed, but she had the power to walk away. She could make herself a player
in his own stupid game. She didnt have to let herself be tortured.
Punch you in the face, he said, after she said nothing. She used to love the phrase,
simply because it was his and he spoke it. But she realized it for what is washis casual
way of mocking her, of reminding her that he was everything he would never give her,
and she was just the silly girl who would have to watch it go by unpossessed.
This was it.
I dare you.