Page 9 of Nine-Tenths
He is so pretty in the morning light.
I'm being so uncooly feral.
What is wrong with me today? I bet if I'd actually gotten laid last night I wouldn't be staring at him like he's the last donut.
"Alright, come in."
He heads for his usual front corner table. Hemustknow he looks good sitting there. Possibly he likes this table because he likes his back to the wall, and an eye on all the exits. Hadi painted the support columns of the old black building the same blazing bronze as her logo, and they do frame the view of the street nicely. And the view of him, from the sidewalk. Or maybe he just likes the warmth from the windows—it could be a cold-blooded lizard thing. But honestly, I really think he's doing it just to torment me.
'Cause when the sun hits the front of the building just right, it sparks off his spun-copper hair, lines his high cheekbones and beaky nose in gold, gilds his shining freckles, and lends a flush of warmth to his otherwise cream-pale skin.
(What? I’m still a writer at heart. I’ve already decided exactly how I'd describe him on paper. Don’t judge me.)
God, I'mthirsty.
I lie to myself and pretend I mean I need something to drink.
The fact that I can almost hear the syrupy anime love theme every time I look at him is the unfairest kind of bullshit imaginable. I am a trashperson, lusting after him when the most we've ever spoken before today was the time he miraculously asked for a second caffe tobio (he'd had bruises under his eyes like thumbprints. I'd wanted to ask him if he was okay, but he was back to his table so quick and—)
Maybe Gem is right and I do need to lay off the romance novels.
(Never.)
Thirsty. Focus on the coffee.
Right.
Maybe I need a glass of ice-water instead.
Maybe just a whole-ass cold shower.
I get all of the gear flicked on, checking water levels and pulling the wands out of the sanitizer, then grind the first pot for the perc. As the espresso machine chugs its way to wakefulness, I peer into garbage cans and inspect tables. The till is counted out neatly, with a post-it note reminding me to buy a roll of quarters stuck to the crisp purple stack of tens.
Obviously Min-soo closed last night, ‘cause she always kills it.
In the dark kitchen, I crank the industrial oven up as high as it will go to pre-warm, scoop dough from the huge bowl Min-soo left in the fridge last night onto trays, and climb the step-ladder to dump a burlap sack of fresh beans into the massive stainless steel bean roaster in pride of place in the corner of the kitchen.
In my back pocket, my phone starts playing a punk version ofYou're the Cream in My Coffee. Shit. That's my alarm to start thesecond batch of scones. Dammit. I don't have time to let the oven preheat properly. I shove the tray in.
Then it’s back out to the front, whereheis sitting primly in his corner, eyes on his newspaper.
Yeah, I'm a basic bitch and prefer coffee that's more sugar and froth than bean juice, but there’s something so good about a fresh-brewed black coffee first thing in the morning. That's art in its own right, my loves. I interrupt the drip machine to pour myself a mug, and take one selfish minute to revel in a perfect sip.
But what is usually a soft symphony of my mornings is instead a self-inflicted cacophony. The plink of coffee into the carafe, the hiss of the espresso machine, the hum and clunk of the bean-roster in action, all punctuated by the crisp rustle of his newspaper? Agony.
A year ago, I would use this quiet time after the morning rush to work on my thesis. Before that, it would have been an essay, or a lab, or something else I’d procrastinated. Now, I have nothing to work on. Nothing to do but this. Nowhere to go but here. No career, no demand, no drive, just…
Me.
And him.
And the stretching, hissing, clunking, dripping, painful silence.
"Ugh, get your ass in gear, you embarrassment," I mutter to myself.
"Beg pardon?" he asks, voice raised politely.
Shit.
