Coffee At Cafe Kafka

He watched the door open and the woman enter. She stood admiring the gold-leaf sign on the glass for a moment, and then she continued on her path into the little room.

“Excuse me,” he said as she approached, envelope in hand, “I was asked to give this to you. He said I’d recognise you as soon as I saw you.”

“Did you?” she replied, removing her coat and taking a seat near the slowly shutting door.

“Actually, you’re the third woman I’ve approached with this,” he said, waving the envelope.

He shuffled into a seat opposite her. They both ordered coffee. She lit a cigarette and placed it in her rose-painted lips, just then both cups clinked on to the table from the hands of a weary waitress.

“Do you know the man who gave you this?” the woman enquired, leaning her head back and exhaling a column of smoke into the air.

“No, he never told me his name.” He stirred the dark liquid in his cup slowly and then took a sip.
She slid the envelope across the table and studied it. Her name was printed in fine hand on the thick cream paper. She took one more draw on her cigarette; its hot red tip retreated towards her lips. Carefully, she opened the envelope and peered inside.

“It’s empty,” she said, crushing out the cigarette in the ashtray. A single ember of tobacco smoked for a second, and then died.