The Blue Girl

As a middle class worker, every day's the same. You wake up, pour your cup of coffee, which you lost the taste for long ago and now down like medicine, and go to the same damn job that you've been working at for the past 10 years; but not me. Yes, I've worked at my job for quite some time now, but every day for me is something new, because every day I work is yet another day that I get to see her. The blue girl.

I opened my little coffee shop about 6 years ago on the corner of Pike and Pine. Though not large in its size, it draws in quite the crowd. Handfuls of people come rushing in on their way to work or a buisness meeting, leavig just enough time to pop in and get their morning fix, but they all seem like a daze to me. They all carry those obnoxious breif cases that are way too big, and those fancy black dress coats, looking like something important besdies what they actually are; a nameless part of the system. But theres one of them that I jut dont quite get. Every morning around 10 o'clock she comes in. This vision in white lace, in black gloves and knit scarves, in kacki boots and satin skirts. She comes up to the counter and orders her usual, a cup of english tea with room for cream. She the takes her cup over to the dressing table and gently tips over the container of cream so as to get just the right amount and tops it all off with a pinch of sugar. She then saunters over to the chair in the corner and sits down with her journal, writing away about what I've always thought to be far off lands and romance novels. About people and places shes always longed to see, but only drempt of going. She sits so peacefully, like the calm against the blustery storm as opposed to the customers that come and grab their coffee to go, in a nervous hurry. But my little blue girl always stays and never seems to have anywhere to go. Every now and then I wonder how it was I came to giver her the name "little blue girl"....maybe its the sapphire in her eyes that catch the glimpses of sunlight as she speaks, or the color of her dress that she wears on Sunday mornings, or maybe its the color of the heavens from which she must have descent. I think I call her little blue girl because of her mystique; like an ocean that you cant break through the surface or a sky which you cant see through the clouds.

Sometimes as she huddles in her nook she chuckles to herself, probably laughing about an obsurd thought or idea thats passed through her head as she writes feverishly on the paper. Someday I'll learn her name and hear stories of what she's been writing about for all these years, but for now she's just english tea with cream and my little blue girl.

Callin Regan

The Blue Girl
Painting by Malcolm Stevens Parcell