A creep sort of float-walked across the coffee shop to Scar’s table and sat down. His head never moved from looking at Scar. He was wearing them dark sunglasses like that jerk in his underwear and socks sliding around on TV all the time. His baseball cap was whiter’n Tinkerbell’s butt and his teeth were black and white like a checkerboard.
“Too fucked up for this black man. Get your Czechsylvania ass away from me.”
He sat and Scar couldn’t let him show him up. “Fine, but palms on the flat.” It put its hands on the table. Ten rings of dull grey, fingers just a jerking all around.
He pinned a waitress with his index. “Hey, java bunny. Two. Black.” They sat not talking till she came back and gave ‘em each a mug and he had to grab the other one and tell her not to give his hot beverage away to no one never.
“Two coffees? That’s silly.”
He didn’t look at her. “Silly is the new cool.”
So she rolled her eyes and bunny-hopped away, and Scar sat there with a coffee in each hand not looking at her. He sipped from one cup and then the other and not-looked at the creep jerking on the other side of the table.
He gave himself one of them grins. He wasn't sure, yet, if this was meant to be some kinda noir, or urban fantasy, or some fucked-up futuristic cyberpunk shit, but he guessed it didn't matter.
Oh yeah, he said to himself, if we can go through the whole book like this, not-talking and not-looking and drinking two coffees, we're gonna make literary fiction for sure. We're talking Booker Prize for this black man.
Opening: Kelly Mitchell.....Continuation: Steve