With Alexandra's latest letter in hand, David returned to the cafe just as he had before: collar upturned, free hand in pocket -- just as though he knew what he was doing. Like instinct he reached and pulled the door open, for a moment savoring the cool touch of the handle on his burning hot skin. His face was blushed; he could tell. The burning hot flesh beneath his eyes burned to his very core, bringing him a sensation of being so very exposed. Even with the cafe barely alight with the distant din of conversation between the sparse customers, David felt as though he were standing in a spotlight, watched by the critics of his imaginary, cerebral television programme, and he had forgotten all his lines. Retreating to a corner near the bookcase, he fumbled with the letter, fondling the envelope between his fingers. In these words, dripping in the blood-ink, was something more than he could fathom. Connection. An escape from his self-imposed isolation. The one light in the dark of his world, turning it all a shade of grey he couldn't identify.

This was all beyond him. With nervous hands, he reached into his jacket pocket and removed a pad of paper, intending to respond to Alexandra's message. But when he clicked the pen open and placed the pad flat to the table, his mind went blank. The darkness rearing on the edge of his mind, he sighed. What could he even write back? To reveal the innards of his mind was to reveal the innards of his soul -- an entity drenched in tragedy, soaked in the eternally unclean wretched spot the likes of which only Lady Macbeth had ever known. All the water in Poseidon's oceans could not wash his doubt clean. His conscience was tainted by bias -- burned with the flame of error.

His thoughts were interrupted by the kind girl from behind the counter placing a small cup in front of him. Without even looking up to her, he could smell the aroma of bergamot. Earl Gray.

"How did you--?"

"A little redheaded birdy told me it was your favourite," the girl replied curtly before disappearing back behind the counter.

Taking in a deeper smell, he realized this wasn't your run-of-the-mill Earl Gray. It was Winter White Earl Gray. Something came to him.

---

Years prior. Following a long, rowdy, bawdy party at an associate's house after classes had let out, David had offered to walk her home. The gentle curls of her hair bobbing in the glow of the streetlight, they took the long route. Up and over the hill in the park. But as the two, still feeling the wonderful toxins of intoxication bleeding through their veins, reached the apex of the hill, they gleefully fell onto their backs and stared up at the endless night sky. David pointed out constellations, and told her of the mythos behind them, occasionally stealing glances into her warm brown eyes, momentarily finding home in their iris, which bloomed out from the pupil like a sunflower, out into the sun of his affections. But as the time wore on in the night, she became more solemn. When he reached over to comfort her, she pulled away, and looked into his eyes as he had into hers. And then she told him. Cancer.

Seven months later, at work on an assignment in New York, David received a latter at his hotel room. Not recognizing the handwriting, he had placed it in his suit pocket before stealing off to work at the Times. But in the midst of his typing, writer's block took hold in a vice grip, strangling away his creative air. In a moment of boredom, he pulled the letter from his pocket and inspected the handwriting on the cover. He hadn't opened it yet, but in this moment of pause, he gave into the curiosity and opened it. Inside, the letter revealed the author. Her mother. Emily Cantrell had died, aged 22, a virgin and unloved by any boy or girl. For the rest of the workday, David progressed as usual, completing his assignment in his usual timely manner, handed it in, and returned to his hotel. But the moment he closed the hotel room door behind him and heard it shut behind him, David Martin broke down and wept like the boy he had once been when he first heard the name Emily Cantrell.

---

Back in time, David opened his eyes. The cafe was dead quiet, the customers having gone and left him alone in the tacky-furnished room. A glance outside told David all he needed to know. Just past dusk. Dead time. Just before closing. The moment when cafes begin to die -- alone, unloved, like a virgin.

Achievements

• 1x Tag Team Champion
  
• August 2013 Superstar of the Month (Thank you all so much!)
  
• 1x US Champion
  
• 1x X-treme Champion