Your Hoodie | Teen Ink

Your Hoodie MAG

December 17, 2014
By SaraCattt PLATINUM, Shelton, Washington
SaraCattt PLATINUM, Shelton, Washington
34 articles 0 photos 12 comments

Favorite Quote:
"I am and always will be the optimist. The hoper of far flung hopes, the dreamer of improbable dreams."- The Eleventh Doctor


You left your hoodie here yesterday, early in the evening. The bell above the door rang, announcing your arrival. You strode casually up to the counter, ordered your chai latte, and sat at the table closest to me, next to the window. I handed your order to Lenny and proceeded to stare at you while resting my head on my hands. Occasionally you would look at me, my eyes darting reflexively down at the counter or out the window, hoping you didn’t catch my gaze and mistake it for something sociopathic. When I knew the coast was clear, I would return to gazing at your gorgeous face.

It was clear and warm outside, our air conditioning running on low. You removed your gray hoodie, turned, and slipped it onto the chair neatly. You crossed your legs, rested your head on your hand, and continued to look intensely at the window I had cleaned earlier. I felt like your glare seeped through my hack job window wiping and into my soul. But that was soon disproved as you turned to look at a car passing outside. I jumped as a cup was set in front of me. I bolted into action without thinking, straightening my hair and fixing my apron as I picked up the cup and brought it to your table. Thoughts of the drink spilling as I slipped across the floor blazed through my mind. But everything went fine. I rested the cup quietly on the table, then started to leave.

“Miss?”

I turned hesitantly. Was there something wrong? Is it me? Was I too quiet? You saw me staring at you. I was staring at you. You’re so pretty though. I glanced up half-heartedly, noting how much more model-like you look up close, bathed in the golden afternoon sun. That is exactly what came to mind, because you were a poem-looking kind of guy.

“Yes?” My voice came out quiet. Too quiet.

“Um, thank you, is all.” You offered a smile. I returned it, shamefully trudging back to the counter. Heat rose to my face. I’m such an idiot!

I returned to watching you sip your chai latte. After a while you pulled out a book and began reading. It was, for me, the most awkward and visually productive 18 minutes of my life. I soon became worried. How long were you going to be here? What if I did something silly and you stared at me thinking, Oh, stupid, sociopathic coffee shop girl, learn how to clean a window, would you? I chewed my lip, a panicked habit I had developed over the last minute or so. Then you stood, closing your book. You left a $5 tip on the table, sauntered to the counter, paid, and left. My heart still recuperating, I watched the bell on the door fall silent. I looked back to where you had sat. You left your hoodie. What was I to do with that? Should I grab it and run out to give it to you? Instead I stared at it, hoping it would get up and walk out on its own. It never did.

The next morning, it still sat there. It looked lonely as I opened the door, lifted it, and peered at it. I began feeling the pockets, making sure a phone wasn’t left behind as well. I felt a small item, ignoring it as it was none of my business. Glancing around, I folded the sweatshirt and set it on the counter. The bell rang, startling me. I turned swiftly, struck with you. You smiled at me. I smiled back.

“You left this here.” I motioned to the hoodie.

“Yeah, I didn’t realize until this morning. Distracted, I suppose.”

My face felt like it was on fire. I hoped it didn’t show. “Yeah, well. Here you are!” I picked it up and shoved it out into the air. I bit my lip, trying not to wince. You didn’t seem to notice anything odd and took your hoodie gladly.

“Thanks, and uh …” you paused, reaching into the pocket, “we should go for coffee some time.” You pulled out a small piece of paper and slid it across the counter. You smiled again, before leaving.

As the day passed, I served coffee to people. Yet that happy little bell above the door never stopped ringing for me.


The author's comments:

I wish to live in a world without typos, but then I wouldn't learn anything.


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This article has 6 comments.


antea GOLD said...
on Mar. 20 2017 at 2:07 pm
antea GOLD, Tirana, Other
12 articles 0 photos 37 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Not all who wander, are lost..."

Nice!!!! :)

on Feb. 22 2016 at 4:33 pm
Writergirl009 BRONZE, Hudson, Ohio
2 articles 0 photos 13 comments
Such a great story! I really enjoyed it.

on Feb. 18 2016 at 9:07 pm
socialkaysualty PLATINUM, Dover, Delaware
25 articles 0 photos 39 comments

Favorite Quote:
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.



So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?



And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.



And should I then presume?



And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head



Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;



That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:



“That is not it at all,



That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Congratulations on editor's choice! You really deserve it :) xX

JWALK said...
on Feb. 18 2016 at 3:49 pm
This article was such a fun read. I could totally imagine this happening.

on Dec. 27 2014 at 7:35 pm
SaraCattt PLATINUM, Shelton, Washington
34 articles 0 photos 12 comments

Favorite Quote:
"I am and always will be the optimist. The hoper of far flung hopes, the dreamer of improbable dreams."- The Eleventh Doctor

Thank you so much! I'm a complete newbie here, and was so happy when I received this! Thanks for the support too :))

on Dec. 27 2014 at 3:47 pm
GuardianoftheStars GOLD, Shongaloo, Louisiana
17 articles 0 photos 495 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Let's tell young people the best books are yet to be written; the best painting, the best government, the best of everything is yet to be done by them."
-John Erslcine

This is so charming! It was such a cute little story. :) Congrats of Editor's Choice!!