Coffee, Conversation, and a Bargain

The evening sun is gleaming through the glass door as it makes its slow descent to sunset, and the shopkeep takes a moment to soak in its rays, like a warm bath. The store smells of coffee beans and steamed milk and, faintly, cleaning products. The shopkeep flips the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’, but he doesn’t touch the lock just yet – he's still expecting one last guest. He turns around. The coffee shop is more like a bar – one long , dark, swirling wooden counter, with several stools comfortably spaced along the length. On the other side is the register, and on the counter opposite that is the coffee station, where the magic happens. Wide glazed windows let in smooth yellow sunlight, merging with gentle orange lamps and silhouetting much of the store in its amber splendour. The shopkeep begins to walk toward the chairs, getting ready to set them atop the bench and start sweeping, when he hears the doorchime jingle behind him.

“Welcome,” beams the shopkeep to its final guest of the day. “Can I get you anything?”

The milk steamers bubbling hiss slowly softens as the shopkeep wheels down the dial.

“Any sugar or creamer?” he calls over his shoulder.

His guest responds in confused stuttering.

“None is fine too, you know. People have it black,” he adds calmly

Finally, his guest finds her voice – high, melodic, and thoroughly enunciated.

“I don’t really drink coffee, nor does it particularly bother me; black will do fine. “Thank you,” she adds, “for your hospitality.”

The shopkeep turns, holding two cups – one steaming black, the other an earthy brown with a cinnamon stick – and places one on his guest's side, sitting the other on his side, next to the register. A moment of silence descends upon the party. The sounds of cars whizzing by and people walking past keeps the silence from its totality, as the scent of coffee and cinnamon and a hint of caramel wafts through the air. The shopkeep does not mind, a small smile and half-closed eyes watching the contents of his cup swirl. The woman across from him is dressed in a suit, waving black hair with red-dyed roots contrasting against the ghastly pale skin of a feminine round face. Her eyes are a piercing, draconic yellow.

"So how have things been with you?”, probes the shopkeep.

“Busy, as they always have been, and always will be, I fear,” replies the intruder, a sad smile crossing her face. She takes a sip of her coffee – still steaming hot, but she is unfazed - “It is, as you know, a matter of business that compels me here today.” The shopkeep nods solemnly; the guest clears her throat.

“Ten years ago you made a deal with us, in return to return to live out your dream. The contract should be final, but I pity you. This is the last chance for you to back out of our deal. If you continue, you are promising your soul to damnation – over a coffee shop!” The entity's expression drops, her eyes slightly pleading. “A coffee shop that, by your own terms, is destined to mediocrity -”

“To comfortable living,” interrupts the shopkeep. The entity continues, undeterred.

“When mortals sell their soul, they are trying to indulge a grand dream; world domination, self-perfection, fame and fortune. You have wasted your soul on something so insignificant, so I offer you this one mercy; do you want to back out?”

Immediately:

“Nope,” beams the shopkeep. The woman across from him is stunned, mouth agape as moments pass by.

“What? What do you mean, ‘Nope’?”

“Sorry, that was a little rude – I mean, ‘no thank you.’”

The woman is stuck in stricken silence. she shakes her head to repel her stupor.

“You choose to relinquish your afterlife over this?! Over a coffee shop? You are willing to choose damnation for infinity, spending eternity wandering the wastes of the nine circles, over a modern commodity and its merchanting? For a mediocrely successful coffee shop tucked away in a choking city? To be another footnote? An entirely respectable aspiration for a mortal lifespan, but is that worth your immortality too?!”

The shopkeep smiles a knowing smile, one that radiates warmth and empathy.

“People come into my shop every day, you know? I’m a part of their daily routine. For some, I’m their morning pick-me-up; sometimes I’m their first conversation of the day. For others, I’m their last. For some people, I’m the one conversation they needed, the spotter to lift the weight of their chest, to turn their day around. For some people...” At this, the shopkeep falls silent. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, his eyes downturned, his smile shrunken.

“Once, a young man came into my store – A regular of mine, I knew he worked at the newsagents just down the road – and already I saw sadness in him. His eyes were red and glistening, his blonde mop of curly hair in unkempt disarray. I asked him how he was; how he really was, and he broke right before my eyes. He had just been stood up by his date, waiting outside my shop for the last half hour. It doesn’t sound all that bad, maybe to your kind, but for a kid it's about as bad as the end of the world. So, we talked about it. I talked about my own rough dating experiences with women – although he was waiting on a man - and I talked him how to get through it. This won't be the last time he has a rough date, and it’ll be far from the hardest, but I was able to help him through this experience.”

The woman nodded solemnly.

"That is... lovely, but I just don’t see how that is worth your soul.”

The shopkeeps smile returned, eyes crinkling in amusement.

“Because,” he said, “by standing here, I can make an impact. I can brighten people's day, I can turn around a terrible one; I’d like to think I can even help to change lives, in the littlest of ways. And, maybe a little selfishly, I am happy. I get to do what I love, when I want, on my own terms. I get to make a difference in my own special way, a difference that could ripple, little by little, for eternity. What good is a paradise of afterlife if I have done nothing for the world? If I am unable to chase my passions, trapped in the sky? Damned though I may be, I will be damned knowing I have lived the life I want. I will be dammed knowing I have left the world a better place. That is all I want.”

The woman thinks on this for a moment, eyes downturned. She hums, she sips her coffee, she mulls. She thinks.

"If you are certain that this is what you want, then I will let it be so,” she finally says, nodding slowly.

“Great, then I have just one question for you”

“Eh?!”

“Why did you come back for me? You made it clear you had no obligation to be here, as far as I understand, its entirely contradictory to what you are to try and return a soul; So why?”

The woman's eyes harden at this, and she clenches her fists tightly, long nails cutting into palms.

“Just as you love your job, just as much as it completes you, I despise mine. Do you think it brings me joy to sentence people to damnation for the crime of having a dream? some deserve it, yes of course, but so many do not – so many like yourself. I do my part to make a difference in spite of my work, just as you make a difference with your work.”

The shopkeep nods, smiling. He extends a hand to his guest.

“Then I guess I’ll see you in half a century, won’t I?”

The woman thinks on this for a moment, before a small smile pierces her lips.

“Yes, I suppose you will,” she says, shaking the shopkeeps hand.