August 2022 Story - Coffee Time (Ch. 2) (Patreon)

It was around the time for midterms, so lots of college kids and high schoolers were taking up space in Starbucks going over their papers and tests. I had trouble finding a seat. They had a large table that could seat some ten people. Usually, people ignored that table because it meant sitting with strangers. This time however, people had no choice if they really wanted to work there. Nearly every seat was filled. The only one available happened to be facing the counter.

I sat between some fat guy on his iPad and a college student who was really focused on writing his paper, judging by the stack of textbooks next to him. I suddenly realized that this was the closest I had ever been working next to people in public; they could shoulder-surf and read a snippet of the garbage that I wrote. It took me a good ten minutes to start writing. I shyly opened up my document on my laptop and continued my next decadent tale about Princess Peach picking the wrong mushroom and suffering a gas attack. I managed to type one sentence before closing it again thinking the college student was shoulder-surfing my screen.

When 7 o’clock rolled by, Barbara walked through those doors as usual. She passed by me and waved, saying, “Hey youuu!” as she headed for the counter.

The guys around me looked at me, curious and confused. I myself couldn’t really believe it.  I even glanced behind me to make sure she didn’t wave to somebody else. Nope. That was for me. It was like a reversal of that trope where the guy thinks the girl is waving at him but she’s instead waving to some Chad. A part of me felt like we were already dating. But I shook my head. Better not get ahead of myself. That was dangerous thinking.

I didn’t write much until the evening grew late, and the skies darkened, and the streetlights turned on. Once the fat guy and the college student left, I really started writing. The crowd thinned out until, once more, it was just me and Barbara.

Barbara was wiping down the counter when she said, “Had trouble writing today?”

“Huh?”

She looked up at me smiling. “You’ve been staring into space a lot today.”

“Oh. Er. Yeah. Writer’s block.”

She frowned. “I hate that term. Writer’s block. I think it makes it feel impossible to write. Sometimes I just take time off, you know? Absorb other media. Watch movies. Play video games. Read other books.”

That was actually a good idea, although I wouldn’t dare explain the real reason why I didn’t write much that day.

She stopped wiping the counter, sighing and wiping her brow. “I’ll finish up the rest later.” She served herself a cup of coffee. “Hey, I’ve got a question for ya.”

“Yeah?”

She then walked over and sat down across from me. “Do you think you could read my novel for me?” she said, looking at me with doe-eyes, embarrassed but excited at the same time. I didn’t say anything right away because my heart was pounding. She went on, “I—well—I don’t have many writing-oriented friends. My family doesn’t really get my writing. I was wondering if you could read it. Tell me how it sounds.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t see why not.”

There’s something extremely intimate about reading a fellow writer’s rough draft. It’s like peering into their soul, getting cozy with it, warming up to it. I would get to know how her inner mind works, take a glimpse into her imagination and thought patterns.

“I’ll have to wait until I get home to read it,” I said. “I know it sounds dumb but I can’t read or critique something on a screen. I still like to print it out.”

She lit up. “Really? Me too!”

We exchanged smiles. I held mine a little too long and darted my attention back to my screen. She was the kind of girl you lost yourself in.

After we exchanged emails, she started mopping the floor. While she was doing so, I noticed her gradually feeling more and more uncomfortable with her jeans. She had drunk two venti coffee things, and they were taking a toll on her. First, she would pull at the waistline and sit up straighter. Then she would adjust her jeans with a little “ugh” while sticking out her tongue.

I tried hard not to stare.

At one point, she stifled a belch. She wasn’t exactly subtle about it either. The muffled “urp” was audible and she said, “Wuff. Excuse me!” She then examined her coffee and murmured, “I think I’ve had too much.”

Eventually, she went to the bathroom. I couldn’t focus because I thought about the times I heard her blow ass like a trumpet in the bathroom. I clenched the edge of my chair thinking about eavesdropping by the door to hear it better, but I didn’t want to be a creep. That’d be too weird. She would maybe catch on if I kept going to the bathroom when she went to the bathroom.

She tore ass super loud this time. We’re talking blasting ass like a French horn, the loudest I had heard from that distance. Just constant PPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHTTTTTTTTTTTT!and PPPPRRRRRRRRRRRRRRFFFFHHHHHHT! Like a balloon deflating. One of them lasted at least five seconds. I couldn’t believe what I heard at first. I thought maybe I was hearing the air conditioning humming. But then I heard the wet sputter at the end and an audible grunt.

I heard the door unlock and I sat straight and dared not look at her. Once again, she didn’t seem awkward or bothered by the fact that I might have heard her. She continued mopping and humming out loud as if nothing awkward happened.

When she finished, it was time to go.

We walked out into the open air. Not much was open at that time in the strip mall. The bowling alley maybe had an hour left, as did the liquor store, but the other restaurants and stores were closed. Few cars left on the lot. I felt nervous walking alone with her back to our cars. We had parked in the same direction, completely by accident, I swear. The crispy autumn wind rustled our hair. Barbara sighed, stretched her arms, and took it in.

“I absolutely love the fall,” she said.

The season fitted her. I don’t know how to explain it, but certain seasons went well with certain people. I couldn’t picture Barbara donning short shorts, a t-shirt, or even going to the beach. Her dark flowing hair always reminded me of a cold wind. She had a Wednesday Addams vibe if Wednesday Addams were more talkative.

“Me too,” I said. I wasn’t lying; I genuinely did. “I always like that chimney smoke smell in the distance.”

“Oooo,” she said. “Yes. That’s a very comforting smell.”

I said goodnight as I reached my car first. Barbara then called out, “If there’s something you want me to read, lemme know too, yeah?”

I hesitated. “Er, yeah.”

She noted my hesitation, and was quick to add, “Unless you don’t want to. For whatever reason. But that’s okay too!”

I then got worried. What if her novel was bad? Would she take negative feedback? I’ve had experience in the past with other writers flipping out at the slightest bit of constructive criticism. This girl was still a stranger to me, so I had to tread carefully.

But there was nothing to worry about – her novel was fantastic- amazing even! It was about a lineage of witches from Mesoamerica, jumping back from pre-Columbus times to modern times, and how a curse had been passed down from one generation to the next. Very strong Hereditary vibes. The influence was shameless, but still unique. There was a message about immigration embedded into it, something she deeply cared about being of Mexican heritage herself. I sat in my bed reading her story and stopping to admire how smart this girl was. She took all these concepts and just meshed them together perfectly. Witchcraft. Feminism. Immigration. I was, frankly, jealous of the whole thing. I wished I could write something like that.

It took me only a couple days to finish reading it. I emailed her my feedback. A lot of it was praise, but of course there were some minor things that needed clarification, or your occasional stray grammar mistake.

When I wrote in Starbucks the next day, Barbara practically burst through the front doors making a scene shouting at me. I actually jumped, thinking there was an emergency or that I did something wrong.

Her eyes sparkled. “OH MY GOD THANK YOU! You have NO idea how much of a huge help that was! Nobody has EVER read my entire story before!”

I must have turned red. “E-ever?”

“No!” She ran over to me and hugged me in my seat. First time we ever touched. That shook me. She then withdrew her arms. “Sorry, are you a hugger? I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“N-no. I mean yeah. I mean. It’s fine. Yeah.”

I would let her hug me for as long as she wanted. She had a tighter grip than I imagined, even cracking my back a little. She pulled back and I said, “Oh. Little chiropractic there.”

“Glad I could be of service! Let me get you something. On the house. As a thank you.”

“Oh. You don’t have to.”

“I insist!”

“I mean. I’ll just have my usual. You should know it by now.”

“Black iced tea lemonade, venti, sweetened.” She paused. “Come to think of it. Why is that?”

I glanced at the menu. “Er. I don’t really drink coffee.”

Barbara’s eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. She very plainly blurted out, “What?”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

She grimaced. With a heavy weight of disgust in her voice, she said, “What kind of writer doesn’t drink coffee?”

I shrugged, smirking.

“But why don’t you drink coffee? You mean like EVER ever? Like AT ALL? That’s so weird! I never thought about it but you do just order the same thing all the time here and it’s NEVER coffee.” A few people were glancing at us now. She had no sense of indoor voice. She was really hung up on it like finding someone who didn’t drink coffee was the most appalling thing in the world.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I just never really…needed it?”

“How do you get up in the morning?”

“I just do.”

She tapped her chin and stared at me like I was some museum piece, narrowing her eyes at me and scanning me. “Wow…” she murmured. “I can’t imagine ever being like that.”

“I don’t really like coffee either.”

“Hm, maybe you haven’t found the right one yet! Here. Let me get you something that I think you would like.”

I was about to protest when she bolted off anyway behind the counter. I mildly hated it when people persisted in getting me to like something, but she was so darn cute that I had no choice but to accept.

I don’t even remember what she gave me. Whatever it was, I didn’t like it. To me, it felt like drinking literal darkness. She then added whipped cream to it. I still didn’t like it. She frowned, but then said, “Well, more for me!”

She nearly chugged the large cup in one gulp. It suddenly occurred to me how she was able to write as much as she wrote. She must have always been wired on coffee all the damn time. Did she even sleep? It all made sense now.

I noticed her co-workers looking at us. I said, “Are you supposed to be giving me this for free? I’m getting a vibe here.”

Barbara didn’t listen. Once she finished the coffee, she said with a raised finger, “Wait. Maybe an espresso!”

“Barbara, you really don’t have to--”

“I can figure this out! Just wait!”

So, she went up, made an espresso, and had me try it.

Vile.

Absolutely vile.

My immediate cringe made her recoil.

“How is this possible?” she said. “I even added sugar. You HAVE to have coffee.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. Some people just don’t like coffee.”

I nudged the cup aside with the tip of my finger, acting as if were some radioactive waste.

She sighed, giving up. “Well. Guess I’ll be up late at night tonight.” She sipped the espresso and smacked her lips.

Then – she stared at me with sudden wide eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

Despite the background chatter of the café, I heard an audible gurgle.

All she said was, “I’ll be right back.” She walked to the bathroom with a noticeable stilted gait, the kind that told me she was clenching her buttcheeks.

Although I didn’t know much about coffee, I figured it wasn’t something you downed like alcohol. Doing so must have suddenly created a lump in Barbara’s stomach. All that gas churning inside of her…rolling up like a ball…My imagination had me going crazy. She was in there…ripping up a storm.

Christ. I had to be with this girl. But how?

Fifteen minutes later, she walked out of the bathroom.

“Sorry about that. Anyway. Where were we? You had espresso, maybe let’s try—”

“Barbara!” shouted a loud, angry male voice.

We turned our heads to face a dude in his early forties with little hair and pointed features that gave off the impression that he was kind of a dick. All he had to do was shout her name and she understood. Her boss – Morgan. She gave me a sheepish shrug and headed back to work.

When it was just the two of us at the end of the day, she unloaded to me about her manager as she scrubbed the counter.

“He’s such a buzzkill. The pinnacle of capitalism. He wants to go into politics, you know. I can see that. I’ve seen him hit on so many women. It’s no surprise. I won’t be surprised if one day allegations come out against him. Someone he knows will probably come out of the woodworks to show the world who he really is.” She viciously scrubbed a stubborn stain. “He’s a bastard. He lied to me about paid overtime. That’s like basically a crime. Isn’t it?”

I typed away. She sighed and said, “There I go again with word vomit. I’m sorry.”

I stopped typing. “No, you’re good. I get inspired by people-watching and listening to people.”

“People-watching is SO much fun.”

We smiled at each other again, this time for a few seconds too long. The silence felt a little awkward. Something intimate tingled in the air, but I couldn’t make sense of it. I wanted to grab hold of it, but instead I was nervous about it. She continued scrubbing away, unaware of the fact that I had been staring at her for like five minutes straight.

“H…hey,” I said.

She stopped scrubbing. “Hm?”

“You wanna go get something to drink?”