Coffee Beans

She pushed open the doors, cringing at the grossly cheerful jingle they gave as she entered. She certainly didn't need her presence announced; she wouldn't even have been in here if Stephen hadn't asked her to pick up his coffee beans.

Coffee beans, of all things. She hated coffee.

And here she was, the coffee shop bustling around her in that romantic sort of slow-moving way. The way people sat with their steaming cups, leisurely typing on their laptops or staring out the window, like they had nothing better to do. The way everyone casually chatted, like they met up here often. The way the baristas drew pictures in the customer's drinks with milk, like there wasn't a line waiting for their damn coffee.

Or in her case, coffee beans.

Even the smell of the place made her bury her head further into the collar of her jacket. It smelled like roasting coffee, a pungent smell that made her think of early mornings with Stephen--which weren't terrible mornings, but usually involved the incessant growl of his coffee grinder, which made it impossible to sleep in. Sometimes that machine alone made her regret staying the night. And other times, it was other things.

And yet, here she was, doing him a favor. Getting his dumb beans from a dumb shop.

She checked the time on her phone for the thousandth time and resisted the urge to take another step forward in line. If she did, she'd be breathing quite literally down the neck of the chick in front of her. And she'd do it too, if she thought it would make the line move any faster.

She eyed the woman, noting the short cut of her hair and the gauges in her ears. Her eyes swept around the cafe and she found her mouth curling into a rueful smile. Look at these hipsters. Everywhere she looked there was another beanie or piercing or neutral-toned sweater. Were slaves to caffeine also slaves to the same fashion sense?

Her eyes caught on a particularly stereotypical man at the front of the line. He wore an orangish corduroy jacket, jeans that just weren't long enough, and ratty converse. His hair was dyed blonde but his dark roots were growing back in, and he stood awkwardly as he waited for his drink. She wanted to laugh at the way he scuffed his feet and stared out the window. Either he was completely out of it, or he was just dull.

Probably both.

Then, he accepted his coffee like it was a familiar friend--money-sucking friend--and she turned away, bored already. Time to people-watch someone else. She judged a few more of the patrons--or, well, more than a few--getting more and more self-conscious of the fact that she just didn't belong in a coffee shop.

Like, seriously. She, unlike the "edgy" chick in front of her, was dressed in a real leather jacket, functional, thick-soled black boots, and a healthy smear of eyeliner. Not because she was pretending to be badass, but because black matched with everything and the clothes were comfortable and weather appropriate. Which seemed to be two qualities that these people didn't care that much about. A girl nearby had a sweater that kept falling off her shoulders and didn't cover her midriff. Miss and miss.

Finally, she made it: the front of the line. "I'm picking up an order. Coffee beans for Stephen Clarke," she said, her credit card already in her hand.

The barista just nodded. She couldn't stop looking at his green hair. "Ok, lemme look in the back," he said. He clicked some buttons on his screen before sauntering to the back of the shop.

She threw her head back, staring at the clock hanging on the wall above and watching the secondhand tick. She resisted the urge to leave the building right then and there.

Finally, Green Hair came back, coffee beans in hand. "Ok, here's the order. Now I just need proof of purchase."

She shook her head. "Don't I pay for it?"

"No, it's already paid. It's prepaid for."

"I'm sorry, so what do you need?"

"Uh, I just need the confirmation email. Whoever paid for it would have received the email."

"I don't have the email. My boyfriend bought it. Can I just pick it up?"

"Sorry, miss. Not unless you have the email or the card used to pay."

The coffee smell in here was giving her a headache. And the pleasant chatter and the coffee making machines and that damn bell on the door. "Never mind," she said, trying her best to sound pleasant. She stepped out of line, already dialing.

Stephen better pick up.

"Hello?" He sounded far too cheerful.

"Stephen, good lord. I'm never coming here again. I need a confirmation email."

"Oh yeah, I forgot."

"Forgot? I've been here for twenty minutes. This was supposed to be, like, a five-minute errand."

"Katherine, it's Saturday. There's no rush."

"Fine, maybe I won't pick up your coffee."

"Babe, come on, I'm sorry--"

"Just send the freaking email, Stephen."

She looked at her phone when he didn't say anything. He'd hung up. She shoved her phone back into her pocket, then gritted her teeth as she took it back out again to impatiently refresh her email.

Thirty seconds of watching a loading circle spin later, she glanced up and her gaze snagged on that corduroy jacket guy. He sat blowing on his coffee mug, blinking slowly at his laptop screen.

She stepped towards him, her thigh bumping into the table, and he started. Two brown eyes blinked up at her.

"What's the wifi password?" she asked, staring at her phone as she said it. She glanced at him to confirm that he knew she was talking to him.

He seemed to understand this fact, but it took an excruciatingly long time for words to come out of his mouth. "Uh," he reached across the table and held up a paper standup, one that she was just now noticing was on every table. "It's red thread cafe zero two," he read, then offered it to her.

She had already typed the words. Connected. "Thanks," she muttered, refreshing her email again. It wasn't there, but hopefully if she refreshed one more time it would; Stephen had to have sent it by now, then she could get out of this godda--

A chuckle broke her out of her thoughts, and she lowered her phone slightly to look at the corduroy guy. Her eyebrows furrowed when he smiled easily at her. "What?" she asked, getting a whiff of his coffee. Jesus, that was strong. She recoiled slightly.

"Sorry, it's just that I've never seen someone so eager to get their coffee. I guess you're feeling depraved..." He leaned back in his seat, his mouth still curved into a crooked smile. "Not that I don't understand the feeling," he said, holding up his own mug as if giving a toast.

For a moment she just frowned at him. "I don't drink coffee. It's for--you know what, never mind," she said, turning her attention back to her phone. One new message. Excellent, because the smell of coffee was beginning to get overwhelming, and she thought she might start gagging.

Corduroy Boy just shrugged. "Ok, then," was all he said. And thank goodness.

Still, his shortness gave her pause. She'd seen the wall of words on his laptop; clearly he was some sort of penniless writer. She had expected him to have more to say, she'd thought that she'd have to rudely peel herself away from the conversation.

But no. He was sitting peacefully, watching the steam rise off of his mug of coffee.

She shook her head and turned away. She had to pick up those damn beans.