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The interior of the coffee shop was warm, and the clientèle passive compared to the norm in New York. The treat of central heating, fused with the calm that a little peace and quiet brought was a much-awaited luxury to the courier, especially after he had spent the early hours of the dark morning riding through the city, delivering every package and confidential envelope he had been assigned the evening before. Griffith did not hate his job, in spite of the hours he kept for his wage, such a statement was far from the truth. He adored it, perhaps more than he had originally, after such a long stint off the road, thanks to the anonymous driver he had been forced to avoid. That one sharp turn had left him a wreck, but it was his first motorcycle, his late eighteenth birthday present, that came out the worst, everything battered, dented, and ultimately broken beyond all repair.
Psyches could repair themselves, in time; punctured and twisted metal, on the other hand, had no healing properties to speak of.
No, Griffith simply disliked the winter weather, and it was after staring out the large double-glazed window the shop front sported as he waited for the queue at the counter to dwindle, to observe the smattering of cars as they trundled up the road, that he really began to savour the warmth he had walked into when he stepped into the cafe and out of the cold dark street, the time just a little after five in the December afternoon.
And just minutes after that minor revelation, he was out in the cold once again, the only warmth that he received a gift from the rich yellow glow of electric light as it filtered through the window pane and washed over the ground before it. Not that the workers would complain about him, choosing to sit out in what could only be called a simple parking space in front of the building. He was a paying customer, after all – but he was a bizarre-looking one at that, his hair a myriad of sandy blonde and mocha brown streaks, pale cream-coloured face sporting dark pencil about almond shaped eyes, tapering tails curling up and around the crease of double eyelids, as opposed to simply halting once the general shape of the eyes had been traced. His body was dressed entirely in the leathers synonymous with motorcycle safety, the contours of the charcoal grey hide hugging his trim body – limbs and torso alike, the leather panels stitched together and bordered by fine Tyrian purple piping on both the jacket and the matching trousers – the padding on the shoulders of the jacket doing little to accentuate his dangerously slim figure.
He was not really the type of customer that they welcomed with open arms, but after he had paid, even going so far as to adding a little tip for the young lady behind the counter, they could not really deny him the right to simply sit alone in front of the shop, completely at home on the seat of his scarlet bike (which always won his undivided attention, even when rivalled by a warm seat in the window of a quiet little cafe), the kickstand providing enough support to allow him to lean back in his seat, thin muscles across his stomach stretching, a gentle rattle coming from one of his booted heels, his favourite spur chattering to itself as he perched his foot upon the proper hold, the gunmetal and purple coloured helmet that normally concealed his whole head sitting between his legs.
A light sigh left rounded and full lips in the form of a faint mist, a single leather-clad elbow settled itself against the locked and half-filled luggage box fixed behind the seat; a cardboard cup locked in the grip of a gloved hand, a map of the city crunching lightly in the grip of the other, as chocolate brown eyes traced one of many routes that led to his next drop-off point, the broad scarlet vein printed onto the repeatedly folded map easily picked out of the tangled web of lines thanks to the light from the shop window.
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