A Deacon of Hope

Deacon awoke, stretching languidly before glancing across the room to Oliver’s unmade bed. “Dude,” he congratulated, smiling broadly.

Sitting up, he scratched his side before checking his watch. It was still early, but a small smile touched his lips. He had a plan. Rising, he completed his morning routine before exiting the room, retracing his steps from the day before, setting at a deliberately leisurely pace, hoping he might, serendipitously so ‘accidently’ bump into the blonde haired jogging goddess Brooklynn.

It was his fervent wish the divine beauty was a creature of habit and routine taking the same route at the same time, each day.

“Please, please, please,” he muttered hopefully, mossy green eyes eagerly scanning the Commons for any trace of the girl. No such luck. He checked his watch again and frowned. He was a few minutes early. Moving over the grass, he took a seat with his back against a tree, positioning himself strategically to be able to see should the exceedingly lovely Brooklynn grace the mortal plane with her presence.

Time ticked away slowly, people busy with their own lives came and went, but not Brooklynn. Deacon checked his watch again. Either she was late, or she wasn’t coming, then Oliver’s words returned to him when he introduced the girl.

“You’re early for your run,” Deacon said aloud, shaking his head and chuckling to himself. “Your honor, she blinded me with her hotness,” he pleaded. When was her usual run time? What if she was an afternoon runner instead of morning runner, he could here for hours? Should he check with Oliver? If things went with his date last night, he was probably still crashed.

Pulling out his phone, Deacon called up Oliver’s contact, typing, ‘You cheeky bastard.’ Looking at it before sending the text, would Oliver take it the right way? He did seem to be pretty laid back and casual, but they were still in that getting to know one another phase. Erasing the message, he typed a safer message, ‘Hope your evening went as well as you might have hoped.’ Rereading it, Deacon snorted, “What am I? A chick? Jesus?” he said, chastising himself. Backing the letters out of the message, he input, ‘Hope you fucked the ever loving shit out of your girl last night and left her weak in the knees.’ He liked that one, but again it did convey a certain sense of familiarity that could be misconstrued. Editing the message, he wrote, ‘Hope you had a good night and left that girl weak in her knees.’ That was better. Still a bit of an edge, but playful enough to not offend. Nodding, he sent the message.

Dropping his phone into his lap, he looked out over the Commons again, wishing he had brought his guitar along with him, though conceding it might still be a bit early in the day for that. If he spotted Brooklynn, he was definitely going to get a picture of her. No way the lads back home would believe how crazy hot she was. Where was she? “Where oh where can my baby be?” he sang acapella, mimicking Pearl Jam’s cover of the song Last Kiss.

Picking his phone back up, there was no response from Oliver. The rumble in is belly let him know he was hungry. Climbing to his feet, he pocketed the phone and ambled toward Cup of Joe’s, still daring to hope Brooklynn might materialize. No such luck.

The coffee shop was only about half full, but he could imagine once classes got going, the place would more than likely crazy busy. Getting himself an egg and sausage breakfast biscuit, he parked his butt at one of the vacant tables, sitting in the chair facing out through the windows just in case a certain somebody might happen by.

Taking a couple of bites from the biscuit, he thought he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Pulling it out, it was dark. “Phantom vibe,” he murmured, disappointed. Swiping it, he tapped the text icon. “Code,” he said, chastising himself. He had forgotten to use it when texting Oliver. Chuckling, he typed, ‘What’s got nothing to do with it?’ That was the line, wasn’t it? He frowned, thinking. Was he supposed to ask Oliver for his line, or his own line? Shaking his head, he quickly messaged, ‘What am I?’ he inquired, answering the question in his own head, navel lint. The answer made him laugh out loud, drawing a couple of glances from other patrons.

Slipping his phone back into his pocket, he finished eating his breakfast sandwich. With neither hide nor hair of Brooklynn, he glanced over at one of the baristas wiping down a neighboring table, a cute little brunette with a green apron tied around her svelte body.

“Excuse me, by any chance is the manager in today?” he inquired, putting on a big smile.

“Sure,” she replied, favoring him with a polite smile. “Is there a problem?”

Deacon grinned and shook his head, “Nah, sorry, I was just wondering if I might be able to play my guitar here?” he replied.

“Are you any good?” she asked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“If I say yes, I’m bragging, if I say not bad, I’m being modest. I would love to play for you and let you decide for yourself,” he answered, grin transforming into a coy smile.

Batting her eyes, she giggled, “Maybe.”

“I’m Deacon,” he said, extending his hand.

“Cady, well Cadence, but everyone calls me Cady,” she replied, slipping her fingers into his hand.

“Nice to meet you Cady,” he replied.

“I’m off at two,” she offered, biting her lower lip.

“Then I will be here at 1:59,” he promised.

“Do you still want to see the manager?”

“I’ll hold until after I’ve had a chance to play for you, then you can me tell if you think it’s a good idea,’ he countered.

“Okay,” she said, shifting from foot to foot. “I have to get back to work.”

“1:59,” he repeated.