Open for Business

I took me awhile to fall asleep that night, and I awoke nervous and fidgety early the next morning. Besides wondering how things would be between me and Sylvia, I worried about how our café would do on opening day. I found a few bored (as always) friends and played some basketball for the first time in a while. Even after going home to shower, it was still early. "What the heck," I thought, and slowly pedaled downtown.

To my lack of surprise, Sylvia pulled up in the alley as I was retrieving the back door key hidden under the tattered welcome mat (very secure, I know). "Aha! Sneaking in to grab my muffins, are you?" she called out her open truck window, grinning broadly. I smiled, extremely relieved to find her in a good mood, but tried not to show it too much. "Come over here, muffin man. I've got something to show you."

I raised my eyebrows, not sure what she was going to do. It was innocent, tho. In the passenger seat were several trays of freshly baked muffins and brownies along with a sign about 2 feet long, metal, painted brown and cut in the shape of a key. Hand-lettered across the middle were the words "Coffee Key Café" and a simple painting of a little steamy mug. She'd made it herself, and it was as cute as she was.

We hung it outside the front door right where the "Gulfside Galley" sign had hung for so long. Then we gleefully ripped all the newspaper off the front windows, bathing the totally-renovated interior with direct sunlight for the first time. The café seemed much bigger with the windows clear, but the retro décor looked even more peculiar when contrasted with the well-worn and very blue collar repair shop now visible across the street. I shrugged and tried not to worry about it.

After weeks of hard work, everything was as ready as it was going to be. Still, we checked and rechecked the stores and supplies and went over the recipe cards a few more times. The place was spotless and neat, the cabinets were stocked with a couple dozen varieties of coffee beans and tea leaves, the fridge was full of humus and sprouts and such, and Sylvia even had a singer she'd recruited in Tallahassee coming in at 9PM. So we nervously straightened furniture and generally fussed about every little detail ("Does the napkin dispenser look better turned this way or that way?") as the hours dragged by.

A small group of curious neighbors congregating outside the door before the official opening time and we went ahead and let them in a few minutes early. Of course, I recognized everyone. It was before most people got home from work, so our first customers were mainly my slacker friends (who gave me a jocularly hard time) and retired folks (who were very polite).

Sylvia greeted them at the door and followed them to the counter as everyone perused the big menu board. She suggested the more exotic (and expensive) choices, but one after the other, they stuck to ordering plain beverages ("Do you have just coffee? You know, regular coffee?"), usually with one of the muffins or brownies that Sylvia had baked on a last-second whim. Sweet tea was another common request, but we didn't have any until I went into the back and stirred heaps of sugar into the fancy imported tea that Sylvia had chosen to brew on opening day.

Sylvia smiled graciously even as our customers ignored most of her carefully constructed menu, never hesitating to thank them warmly for coming in. I was probably the only one who noticed little wrinkles of annoyance ripple across the bridge of her nose as the premade fancy sandwiches in the glass display case slowly turned soggy.

Those ripples slowly grew into high tide of worry. The older people finished their beverages and headed out, most of them kindly waving and wishing us good luck from the doorway. My buddies hung out on the sofa for a little while before wandering off to kill time somewhere else. By 5, the café was almost empty again.

We used the respite to restock and brew fresh pots of "regular" coffee and iced tea. Neither one of us expressed our concerns, and Sylvia said that she was sure it'll get busier after the working folks got home. She didn't sound very sure, tho.

It did get a little busier, but not much. My dad actually came in ... and ordered a sweet tea. He told me that he was proud to see me earning a living, which was rare praise from him. With a very embarrassing tussle of my bushy hair, he was gone.

That trickle of customers gave us some hope, but then the trickle dried up around sundown. When the chick singer arrived toting an acoustic guitar, there was nobody there to sing for besides me and Sylvia.

Sylvia propped open the door and moved the singer's stool and speaker right against the front windows to attract customers. The girl was pretty and had a nice voice, and her acoustic stylings succeeded in luring four passengers from a just-returned fishing charter to come in ... and order themselves a quartet of coffees, black w/ sugar.

"You think we oughtta call it a day?" Sylvia asked me after the place had been empty again for another half an hour. I nodded sadly. It took most of our meager receipts to pay off the performer, who shrugged her shoulders sympathetically before toting her gear out into the quiet night.

"Jeez, Sylvia... ," I began, feeling terrible for her but not knowing what to say.

"We'll be ok, Ben. It's going to take some time to catch on, that's all. Weekend business should be better. I bet the poetry slam on Friday will be the start of something."

First, tho, we had to get through Thursday. The flow was similar to opening night, except with fewer customers at opening time and no singer to bring in stray pedestrians after dark. At least we anticipated light business and made sweet tea but fewer sandwiches in advance, reducing waste. Sylvia kept repeating that Friday would be a better day, probably as much to convince herself as to convince me.

Friday morning, we were all over town putting up signs advertising the "poetry slam" that night at 9. Basically, it was a poetry contest, with the winner winning $25.

As we prepped for the day, Sylvia shared her high hopes. "This will bring people in. Once they get a feel for the café, they'll become regulars and things will grow from there." She even spiffied-up her outfit for the occasion, going with a loud, paisley, 60s-looking knee-length dress instead of her usual jeans and a t-shirt. She was so cute.

To our extreme disappointment, however, customers were again scarce. We had the same small rushes at opening time and after-dinner, and then nothing.

Around 8:45, my high school English teacher walked through the door with a rolled up sheet of paper in his hand. He was visibly surprised to find the place empty, but ambled up to the counter and ordered a hummus sandwich, giving me a rare opportunity to use those recipe cheat sheets. After chatting pleasantly for a few minutes, he left without unrolling the paper, which I guessed had been a poem he'd prepared for the slam. He really should have stayed to read it, as we would have been obliged to hand him the $25 first prize since there was no competition.

Sylvia was near tears. "I'm such a damn idiot..." she mumbled to herself, staring out the open front door to the dark and desolate street. I hated to see her like that. She'd been so happy just a couple days before, and now her dreams were spectacularly crashing and burning.

Even as a small-town kid who didn't know nuthin' about nuthin', I had harbored a hunch that the Coffee Key Café was going to flop. I couldn't explain it very well at the time, tho, which is why I'd kept my thoughts to myself. Looking back now, it's pretty clear what was going on.

Sylvia was trying to cater to an artsy-fartsy demographic that's very common in a big city or a college town, but not on Main Street in a conservative little backwater like Meredith Key. It was a classic case of culture clash. The locals want regular coffee at 6AM served in a plain ceramic mug, not a latte-style beverage at night served in a "grande" styrofoam cup. "Live music" consisted of the marching band at a high school football game, and "poetry slam" was what you did to your English book when your homework got frustrating. And if they wanted to eat pasty/lumpy stuff, you fixed a bowl of grits, not a spread of hummus. Most people probably had no idea what it was. I suppose Sylvia figured that Meredith Key had changed in all the time she'd been away. Obviously, it hadn't.

All these revelations came later, tho. As we sat alone and dejected that night in the café, I desperately tried to figure out how to cheer Sylvia up.

I'd actually planned something for the poetry contest. It wasn't an original poem; it was song lyrics I'd heard during Sylvia's recent Beatles blitz. I'd been extremely nervous about reading it in front of an audience and probably wouldn't have been able to stand behind the mike with other people there. As it turned out, I had an audience of one. That was perfect, because it was really just for one person, anyways.

"Would you mind if I did a poem?" I asked. She looked up, perplexed and red-eyed.

"What? Sure, I guess. Why not?" She was so depressed, it broke my heart. Instead of just reading the words, I decided to sing them.

I grabbed her CD player and carried it over by the microphone she'd set up by the sofa. Her eyes were still red, but she was momentary distracted from her gloomy mood as she tried to figure out what the hell I was doing. I popped in her Beatles' White Album CD, selected the correct track, and turned to the mike – singing along and substituting the oft-repeated name in the song with another that fit perfectly:

Half of what I say is meaningless But I say it just to reach you, Sylvia.

Sylvia, Sylvia, ocean lady, calls me So I sing a song of love, Sylvia

Sylvia, sea shell eyes, windy smile, calls me So I sing a song of love, Sylvia

Her hair of floating sky is shimmering, glimmering In the sun

Sylvia, Sylvia, morning moon, touch me So I sing a song of love, Sylvia

Sylvia, sleeping sand, silent cloud, touch me So I sing a song of love, Sylvia Sylvia

I had wanted to stare into Sylvia's eyes while performing, but nervousness had caused me to stare across at the far wall after the first line. When I was done, I turned back to see tears running down her cheeks. "Oh, Ben..." she sighed, leaning on the counter.

I literally sprinted to her side, not really sure what I'd do when I got there. Luckily, my arms had a plan, and they wrapped around Sylvia, holding her close, trying to make it all better. She turned and hugged me back, her body wracked with sobs. Once again, I was confused. Was she crying in sadness because of the café's failure? Was she crying with joy because I'd come out and said I loved her? Or with guilt because she didn't love me back? Maybe she was just in pain because my singing was so bad? Or all of the above?

Whatever, I decided to go for it. We were about the same height and she had her face buried in my left shoulder. I unwrapped my right arm from around her and lifted her chin. Our eyes met, and I could see nothing but love. Without thinking, I locked my lips on hers. To my delight, she kissed me back and tightened the hug.

It wasn't long before we were kissing as desperately as we'd been kissing in the back room before she'd put on the brakes a couple weeks previously. I pulled her closer, mashing her body against mine, her middle against my hip, and she groaned in response. Horniness again making me bold, I fondling her bottom through her dress, and even started gathering up the hem, hoping to touch panty (or bare skin?!?) any second.

Then, suddenly, she pushed away. "Oh no, not again," I thought as I released her, trying to scan her eyes for clues. I couldn't do that because Sylvia wasn't looking back at me; her head was turned towards the front door. It took me a breathless moment for my over-heated brain to figure out why.

"Shi-crap, we're still open!" I cried, censoring myself, when I realized that we'd been heatedly making out with all the lights on and the front door propped open.

"Not for long," she replied, purposefully striding around the counter to lock up. She wasn't putting on the brakes after all – it was just a speed bump! I turned off the lights as she shut the front door and flipped the "open" sign to "closed". The "open" side of the sign hung over Sylvia's shoulder in my line of sight as sauntered back to me wearing a sultry smile. I took it as a good omen.

"Now, where were we?" she asked huskily, returning to my arms. I held and kissed her briefly, then paused things myself. She was finally in the mood, and (of course) so was I. But I didn't want to lose my virginity behind the counter of a coffee shop. This was real love – not a cheap hook-up or some shallow sexual conquest – and I wanted it to be special, memorable.

So while she looked at me quizzically (suffering through her own turn of wondering why her lover had paused the action), I uttered those memorable words, "Let's go to your place, Sylvia," then added less confidently, " ... if that's ok."

Her sultry smile returned. "Of course! My place it is." Hand in hand, we hurried out the back door to her truck.

My senses were super-sensitive as we climbed in. The rumble of the engine, the songs of the katydids and crickets, the pink glow of the streetlights, the dying summer seabreeze wafting through the open window – everything seemed more vivid, more intense. I was literally trembling with nervous anticipation and jumped when Sylvia reached across the seat to squeeze my hand.

I hadn't even had time to notice which direction we were going before the truck jerked to a stop. Without the motor running, the night was so quiet that it hurt my ears, save for the gentle lapping of water. We'd only traveled a few blocks down 2^nd Street to the Meredith Key Marina. I looked at Sylvia quizzically.

"I've been staying on Mack's old charter boat," she explained as she hopped out. I'd assumed that she'd been living in his house outside out of town, but the boat made more sense, being so close to the café. There was no time to think about it, tho, and I hurried after her.

Sylvia waited for me in front of the truck and I took her hand. Lights over the dock illuminated a couple dozen boats and yachts, the small marina office (closed), and the deserted wooden walkway. I kissed her again, and she smooched back for a second before whispering, "There are people in some of these boats, Ben, and fishermen come and go all the time..." She still wasn't telling me what to do, only making an observation. I was beginning to like our arrangement.

I answered with a firm but brief two-handed squeeze of her behind before disengaging. She shot me a wry smile before leading the way down the deserted pier to the 30-odd foot cruiser that her father had used for deep sea charter fishing trips. (He'd gone missing in a much smaller open boat which he used closer to shore.) I'd never really taken note of the name of Mack's boat's name before, but there it was in script letters on the stern: Sylvia. Her family was still a complete mystery.

But I didn't worry too much about that, because in another second, we were onboard and headed straight for the hatch to the cabin. I stopped, pulled her back, and kissed her. We were in the shadows of the deck under the fishing tower, kinda sheltered and kinda out in the open. I didn't care; I wanted to start right there, right then.

Sylvia didn't stop me when I gathered up the back of her retro dress again as we continued to suck face, my bulge rubbing against her hip. (I was careful not to rub too much, tho, because it seemed like I should save my coming explosion for something more exciting than the inside of my new boxers.) Her tongue became more active when I finally reached her panty-clad bottom and cradled it in my hands.

On a rainy afternoon a while back, I'd seen Dr. Ruth Westheimer on some talk show. I hadn't really understood most of what she was talking about, but I did remember Dr. Ruth commenting that men want to rush sex while women need more time. I had that in mind while we passionately made out on the boat, and I was determined to take things as slowly as possible for Sylvia's benefit.

This woman, however, was in a rush. She backed away a bit to attack my belt buckle and was about to continue on to the fly of my jeans before realizing that she was breaking her own passivity rule. "Ben ... do you? ... could you?..." she whispered as we kissed, wrapping her arms around my shoulders but keeping enough room between us that my fly was easily accessible.

Obviously, she wanted me to be in charge but wanted me to hurry it up already, and I was very willing to go along. I unzipped my jeans and dropped both jeans and boxers down to my knees, and my bulge stretched out in the open air to become a stiff pole, and the top of that pole jammed against Sylvia's dress-covered thigh.

It didn't stay there for long, as the next sensation I felt was that of her fingers wrapping around it and stroking hard and fast. I lifted her dress a little higher so that my cockhead rubbed against the bare skin of her hip. It was a good feeling.

As you might have guessed, despite all my Dr. Ruth-inspired concern, I popped off after about a minute or two, shooting my stuff on Sylvia's hand and leg and the fiberglass deck as she kept me from falling over.

The first two things I heard when my senses reactivated were Sylvia breathing heavily in my ear and the put-put of an outboard motor in the distance. She must have heard it about the same time because she let go of both my shoulder and my cock and hurried into the cabin. I couldn't walk very well with my jeans around my ankles, so I kicked them off before following.

She laughed when she saw my state of undress. "Forget something, cowboy?" she teased as she leaned past me to shut and lock the hatch, briefly tickling my still half-hard vertical mast as she did so, eyes twinkling like a pair of bright stars even in the dim cabin.

"Yeah," I responded with a rakish grin, "I forgot to take your clothes off out there, too." She only "ooo"-ed in response, still twinkling.

She switched on a light and I had my first good look inside the cabin. We were in a little salon area with an L-shaped sofa built into the wall. There was a little kitchen set-up (fridge, range, 2-person table) in there, and narrow doorways led to small berths and the head (bathroom, for you lubbers). Straight ahead, in the V of the bow, was the master cabin. The interior gave the impression of lived-in luxury, which made sense, I guess.

At the time, tho, I wasn't all that concerned with cabin cruiser design; I was a bottomless teenager with a renewed and bobbing hard-on, and I was anxious to put it to go use inside the woman I loved. I embraced Sylvia in the middle of the cabin, quickly gathering her dress up to her waist again to fondle her pantied bottom, still trying to take my time for her. When she grabbed my bare ass, banging my cock against her dress-covered middle, tho, I got the message that she wanted me to move things along again. So, with a hint of nervousness amid my lust, I did just that.

I stepped back and tried to yank her dress over her head, but she stopped me with a giggle and a "Hold on a sec," reaching around to unzip the back. With a sheepish grin, I tried again. She lifted her arms to help and was soon wearing just a simple bra and bikini-style panties.

I kissed her lips only briefly before pulling my t-shirt over my head – I wanted to feel her skin against mine. She must've had the same idea, because with a quick and mysterious contortion, her bra was gone as well. The first time I touched her breasts (or anyone else's, for that matter) was against my bare chest as we held each other close. They were wonderful; soft and firm at the same time, with the hard little nubs of her nipples further demonstrating her arousal as we kissed even more passionately than before. The only stitch of clothing between us was her panties; my cock folded up against the skin of her tummy, my balls against the soft cotton below.

The boat may have rocked a bit or maybe we just both got dizzy at the same time. Either way, Sylvia stumbled back and I followed, landing almost on top of her on the edge of the sofa. We laughed, and then I realized that her boobs were right in my face and went in, kissing and licking and sucking, as she moaned my name softly and ran her hands through my bushy hair.