It was Monday afternoon and I was sitting in the small booth in the corner of the dull coffee shop. I waited there, every Monday for her because I knew that she hated them. She knew it was just another start of the week and that was something she hated most. Weeks. Months. Days. Years. Life. Existence. And because of this depressing quality, I loved her for it. She was like a porcelain doll. Once you broke it, it could never really be the same again; no matter how much super glue or rubber cement you pasted onto it. The doll would never really have that same redeeming quality and because of that, you knew you had lost something special. So I never really tried to fix her. I never brought out the rubber cement because I didn't think I'd be able to finish something I started. Especially with someone like her. Already so fragile. So quick to judge and so very alone. And because of all this, I would claim her as my angel. My depressed little angel that only wished to ascend to a place better than this. A place where the coffee shops weren't so dingy.
On a splurge of boredom, I decided to study this place. I had come everyday for six months and no one had recognized me yet. This was my favorite place to be. This was the only place I could be Justin and just Justin. I was sick of people asking for me to scribble my name on hotel and restaurant napkins. It also wasn't really endearing when people wore my head on their breast and claimed themselves as the number one fan. Shaking my head clear of thoughts, I began letting my eyes roam around the prison cell like atmosphere. The wallpaper was brown and smudged from the grease encapsulated inside the tiny room. The cooks wore cafeteria like hairnets and the waitresses smacked gum and made annoying little clicking sounds with their jaws. There was also this indescribable dead heat in the air that was mixed with burger grease and cheap perfume. All of this seemed somewhat like home. I tapped my fingers against the cool, rusty table. Da dum. Da dum. Da da da dum. I tried mimicking heartbeats, but failed. What a musician I was. To think, the Justin Timberlake couldn't even thump out a couple of continuous beats. The irony of it all made me laugh. The chuckle was heard throughout the dead silence and all of the 3 pairs of eyes turned to me. I cleared my throat in all nervousness and directed my attention downwards. After about 20 minutes of mock beats, I gave up and realized she was late. She was never late. I almost got up and left, but I noticed that the TV was on. The TV was never on before. So I took a seat closer to it. I saw it all. I witnessed it all on TV. On the fucking TV. Shootings. Guns. Violence. And my little Andy. She was never violent, was she? WAS SHE? They were wrong. They had to be. My ears peaked interest when I heard the newscaster give his report. "Fifteen year old Andy Williams has reportedly shot and killed two students and injured 13 when she brought an AKA-47 to Santana High School this Monday morning. Witnesses say she was never really a social person and quite quiet, but she seemed outraged and unlike herself that morning….Andy was found in the school library with multiple gunshots to the head. A note was found next to her, but we cannot clarify what was on that note. For further updates tune into FOX 11's six o'clock news…" I couldn't believe it. My little Andy. Gone. Forever. And while the newsman spoke, all I could hear was one familiar tune gliding into my head.
All the playing's stopped in the playground now
I don't like Mondays My little Andy never did like those Mondays. |