During an unexpected rainstorm NO ONE takes notice as an artist waits to meet a potential model in a café. The overcrowded refuge gives Sheila the opportunity to anonymously observe the man who bears a resemblance to the prowler who invaded her studio a year ago. Amidst the cacophony and chaos of those trapped in the cafe, Sheila contemplates if he could be the unidentified intruder.

No One

a 1,473-word short story by Duane M. Engelhardt

Copyright 2025©

Sheila drummed her fingers on the counter to a moody timing that matched the gray clouds and rain outside. No one seated in the coffee shop looked up. Rainwater trickled from the closed umbrella in her left hand into a small puddle onto the top of her shoe and then spilled over onto the floor. Grasping the mug of coffee, she accepted the art in the foam as a badly drawn heart that slowly became a leaf. Or was it just a leaf? The water seeping under her shoe made her footsteps squeak as she walked which made her smile and then laugh.

Searching for a seat she barely squeezed into an empty spot in the window under a spider plant with a long arm that brushed across her forehead each time the door opened as if someone had decided to push her bangs out of her eyes. “Definitely a leaf,” Sheila whispered as she sipped the coffee. The mocha-colored pattern reminded her of autumn. She hesitated as she debated checking her phone then yielded and discovered to her dismay that the screen was blank.

Everything was wet. Everyone was wet. Sitting in the window seat Sheila could hear the waves of water being thrown up by the cars in the street. Closing her eyes, listening to the sound, she envisioned the waves hitting the window, sliding down the large pane of glass as it made its way toward the sidewalk, the street, the gutter to create large puddles and streams. Rain and the city were never friends, a simple rain shower yes, but in heavy rain the water had nowhere to go. The drains backed up. The streets became streams.

The storm had thrown everyone into a tizzy and the afternoon was filled with misdirected plans. Sheila spun her phone on the table as she waited for an answer, like the magic eight ball when she was a kid, but the dark screen revealed nothing. Resting her chin in her hand she strained to catch what those around her were discussing, listened to waylaid schedules, disappointments, people being late, cancelling, rescheduling. Folks surrendering to the storm.

There would be water in her apartment. Sheila was worried that she had left the window open in the studio as she hurried out, late as usual. Under the spider plant, drinking coffee, studying the other patrons, committing faces, body types, postures to memory, she lamented that she had forgotten to bring along her sketch pad.

The colors of the image in the coffee brought back memories of last autumn. “Home invasion,” the nice police officers distracted by their own problems had obtusely called it. Ordinary. As if a masked intruder was an everyday occurrence. She had walked in on him and had time to study his face before fleeing. “Empty eyes. Unsolved,” she shuddered. 

Since then, it had become Sheila’s practice to meet potential models away from the studio in public on neutral ground, “in the wild,” as she called it. It gave her time to discreetly study their features in everyday light, analyze their psyches, auras, moods, and potential peccadilloes. Today, her schedule, like so many others, had fallen apart as the storm began and people scattered. She had messaged the change of plans as she took refuge in the cafe but had received no reply.

The door pushed open, and the arm of the spider plant obligingly performed its duty, brushing across her forehead. Storming in, a man stood fidgeting at the counter. His sharp voice was accompanied by harsh nasal breaths which cut off his words, clipping them in a cadence timed to the thumping of his foot. Water streamed down the side of his face, and as he waved his arms around in a fit of pique, his wet clothes sprayed water in a small arc on those packed into the confines of the café.

People turned to protect themselves, hunching over to guard their space as the man’s scouring eyes stared out from under his rain-soaked cap, demanding satisfaction, expecting those trapped to offer admittance to their protected domains. After a stern nod from the barista who gently and persuasively urged him out of the way, he stood to the side, grudgingly accepting his order. Sensing his acquiescence the mood in the cafe slowly relaxed.

Sheila recognized him immediately. The hard square chin, the weathered face, the youthful physique, traits she had admired in the photographs the agency had emailed. In the light of the café, there was an uncomfortableness about him that his portfolio had veiled. Here, stripped of the protection provided by photographic illusion, a pettiness emanated from the man’s face. His eyes lacked that sense of soul that Sheila sought in her subjects. Any capable artist could paint his portrait but for her he was uninspiring, empty.

Drumming his foot with fluttering nervous beats he inspected the people in the café looking, probing, dissecting situations, as if trying to find someone. Unsuccessful, he studied his phone. Silencing the ringer, Sheila quickly slipped her phone into her jacket pocket just as it buzzed.

The shop was not designed to have its guests stay long term. In and out, open and close the door. In with the fresh air out with the bad air. The rain changed that. The natural airflow of the shop had been disrupted, and the small room became the victim of soaked fabrics, wet hair, bad breath, stale coffee, and too many people. Sheila took advantage of the spider plant, sinking beneath its accommodating cover as she sat back and scrutinized the man.

With a brilliant jolt the café went dark, and the room gasped as the unexpected darkness plunged the gathered refugees into shadows lit only by the rain-soaked gray light coming from the front shop windows. In the dim light people held their breath, motionless. The distant ground trembled, slowly building to a reverberating rumbling echo as if an old-time giant steam locomotive was crashing uncontrollably into the station. And then quiet, the stillness highlighted by the ceiling fan struggling to a painful standstill.

The man stood in the dark, sipping his coffee. The glow from his phone lit up his face as she watched him scan the café. Overwhelmed, Sheila whispered, “I know you!” Her breath quickened, her heart raced and for a moment she placed him in her studio, raving, swinging a baseball bat destroying things, her things, her work, her life, memories, all crashing down around her in a pile of rubble. She felt her breath catch and her hands clench as she fought the conflicting urges to run, to scream, to hide, to extinguish his empty eyes, pummel his contemptuous face.

The lights bounced back on, and a relaxed sigh overtook the room as several people leaned back in their chairs. With the return of electricity, the ceiling fan began its tortuous return to life.

In the lighted café the man lost his uniqueness. His formidable imposing stature melted away into the ordinary, the run of the mill. He now appeared rude but docile, not the overpowering domineering beast of her nightmares or from her past. Powerless. Ineffectual. In that fleeting moment, sighing in relief, Sheila dismissed him. Not a suspect. Not a candidate. Trying her best to look disinterested she stuffed a napkin in her pocket, pushing her phone further down into its depths as it buzzed again.

With the power back on, the mood of the cafe changed. Snatches of people’s lives bounced around the café in words, phrases, sentences of dialogue, all of which succeeded in melding into a cacophony of lyrical conversations. There was laughter and encouragement as those huddled inside watched people outside doing their best to avoid the rain, the puddles, the water. Those gathered who a short time ago were absorbed in their own lives, coupled with the gloom of the rain, now shared photographs, phone numbers, email, promises were made to meet under drier circumstances.

The rain slowed. Although it hadn’t stopped, people took it upon themselves to move on, to go home, to their next stop, back to work, or to some other dry sanctuary. The man studied his phone one last time, halfheartedly surveyed the café, and then hurried out the door passing by the woman seated under the spider plant in the window.

Sheila brushed away the obedient arm of the plant, and finished her coffee, as she watched the man rush away until he was absorbed, engulfed into the sea of umbrellas bobbing down the wet street. Then taking a deep pensive breath, she packed her things, picked up her empty mug and returned it to the counter. Outside, abandoning her umbrella, she let the light drizzle tickle her face as she joined the hurrying crowd. It had definitely been a leaf. Unless it was a heart.

Originally Published by Red River Review, Issue 74 (Fall, 2025)

https://redriverreview.org/no-one-duane-m-engelhardt-issue-74/