The coffee shop

The familiar call of caffeine addiction sounded from somewhere deep inside of Reese. The necessities of their profession -- long, often late-night editing sessions, boring meetings with clients, the comforts of vice in stressful times -- had converted the former "coffee culture is for weirdos" proponent into a raving coffee fiend in constant need of another fix.

Which is how they ended up at a coffee shop at seven p.m. It was a pretty tiny place, out of the way, not part of a major chain and therefore considered unreliable by many of the less... discerning people in the neighborhood (god, that was such an asshole thing to think, but that was totally the addiction's fault). Reese loved the shop's name: Heirloom, suggesting it had been here for a long time, or that its recipes were passed down from generation to generation... it made Reese feel weirdly at home, cozy, which was why they went there so often.

That, and the coffee was delicious. Of course.

And, well...

Reese sipped their medium roast from a handmade ceramic mug. The taste, the smell, the warmth rising up from the mug, the cozy atmosphere... it was like ASMR, this feeling of safety, of security.

It was easy to say they preferred Heirloom for hipster cred reasons. That was something people understood, and while it probably annoyed a lot of them at least they didn't have many follow-up questions, especially if they already thought Reese was an asshole for saying it in the first place. But these weren't the reasons Reese spent time at Heirloom.

It was genuinely a place they felt safe. Reese was still young when they learned the world had teeth and it would bite you for being different. They remembered it clearly: the first time they'd gone out truly as themselves, in glitter makeup, painted nails, denim jacket, and boots, heart fit to bursting every time they caught a glimpse of themselves in a shiny surface or a bathroom mirror, and even though they'd been keenly aware of the eyes that watched them everywhere they went they told themself this would eventually stop, that people would find another freak to pin their disgust onto, and that when they popped into a local chain coffee shop to get a vanilla latte to go things would continue being 100% fine (or at least okay), and that when they popped into the bathroom while waiting for their order they'd be totally safe and people would leave them alone. And when they found themself lying on the floor, curled in on themself, gripping their stomach in pain, and the man standing over them called them a pervert and a freak and stormed out, Reese thought, over and over again, This is not me, this is not happening.

But that was them, and that was them now, sitting in another coffee shop, sometimes looking at the bathroom door and wondering if the next person to use it would come out as whole as they were going in.

Truth be told, Heirloom wasn't a coffee snob's paradise. It was good, sure, but most importantly it was safe, and in that regard it was a precious jewel.

Plus the barista was really fucking cute. God, what an asshole thing to think. And it wasn't the addiction's fault, either.

Tall and thin and athletic in a way that screamed "former lifeguard," the barista loomed over the tiny older woman refilling the bean containers behind her. She wore a plain white button-up shirt beneath the cafe's signature burgundy apron, monogrammed with a dull, golden "H." Hair the color of corn silk, done up in a messy chignon that seemed on the verge of falling apart... It was such a hack thing to say, but she literally looked like a model -- not for swimsuits or makeup or whatever, but for the kind of high-end coffee equipment you'd see sold in stores whose unofficial motto was, "If you have to ask how much it costs, you can't afford it."

Reese was the only one there. Every few minutes someone would pop in, get a drink to go, and duck back out into the balmy evening. Otherwise the place was clearing out as Reese came in.

It was clear the barista was bored. Her coworker -- the little old lady, equally bored -- had elected to take over... well, pretty much everything, insisting her junior colleague take a break. "I've got it, dear," she said with fair frequency, "sit down for a second, why don't you."

"Would you like anything else?" the younger barista asked Reese, drumming her fingers on the wood countertop.

"Actually, I --"

"I've got it, dear," the older woman chimed in, already grabbing a clean mug. She shook her head, smiling. "Kids these days... it's okay to relax, y'know! Do you think Dad would have left this place to me if I didn't know how to relax? If he thought I'd drop dead on the spot from exhaustion?"

Ah. So she owned the place.

The young barista rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to drop dead, Rebekah. And anyway--" she tilted her head in Reese's direction "-- we've got a customer." She did a little stretch and then leaned onto the counter. For a second her doe eyes, green as grass in the morning, met theirs, and Reese was convinced she didn't like what she saw. But then she smiled, a lazy, "I'm so fucking ready to go home"-type of smile, and asked, "So what'll it be?"

Reese smiled back, and immediately cursed themself for being a creep. Don't be that person who hits on girls at coffee shops, they scolded, just be normal. "Could I get an iced coffee? To go."

"Sure thing." And then, almost as an afterthought, "Good luck getting any sleep."

"Wasn't planning on it. Lots of work to do."

"Oh, yeah?" She took Reese's spent mug and deposited it in a nearby sink. "What kind of work?"

"Amber, don't be rude," the old woman -- Rebekah -- chided, rolling her eyes. "Leave the young... man alone." She must have immediately sensed something was wrong in her command, because she quickly added, "Umm... I'm sorry, dear, you're not a young man, are you?"

Reese blushed. "Umm... not really. But that's okay--!"

Rebekah slapped her forehead. "Fiddlesticks, Rebekah, stop putting your foot in your mouth." She puffed her cheeks, rapidly exhaled. "I'm so sorry, dear. I'm old-fashioned and not used to people being... well, so true to themselves, I guess." It was a very sweet thing to say, but Reese wanted to melt through the floor down to the earth's core. So, so uncomfortable. "Amber, I'll make a drink on the house. As owner of this establishment, I am ordering you to take a five minute break."

The young barista -- Amber -- sighed. "Fine." She leaned in towards Reese. "I'm so sorry about that."

"It's okay," Reese said, because it really was. "I really don't mind." Then why am I blushing so bad?

"So, I guess I'm on break," said Amber. She rested her cheek in her hand, propped her elbow on the counter. "You were saying? About your job?"

"Oh! Uh, I edit videos."

A familiar conversation commenced.

---

"Yeah, I've been a here for about a year and a half," Amber said, drawing circles with her finger on the countertop.

Reese took a sip of iced coffee. The condensation on the outside of the plastic container felt good on their palm. "Nice. I've only lived in the area for a little longer than that."

"Where'd you live before that?"

"Chicago."

"Oh, cool. I'm kind of a townie." She shrugged. "Sorta. I mean, I'm working on my master's, but I've only lived here, y'know?"

"What're you going to school for?"

"Creative writing." She blew a raspberry. "So basically I'm planning on being a barista forever."

Reese laughed. "That's not fair."

"Just saying! But it's very... meditative, y'know? Very... Japanese 'I' novel."

"Like a Natsume Soseki thing?"

"Exactly!" Amber nearly threw her hands up in the air. "Very Kokoro."

"Very Banana Yoshimoto."

"Yes." There was a pregnant silence between them. "I feel like not very many people read the same things I do."

Reese shrugged. "Well, I mean... I've got to do something with the down time between projects."

"Fair."

A phone rang from a nearby room. Rebekah excused herself and left to answer it.

Then it was just the two of them. Outside the sun was dipping below the horizon, and the cafe was growing dimmer.

"So you're working tonight?"

"I try to work a little every night, but yeah. Hence..." Reese raised their iced coffee.

"Cool." Amber drummed her fingers on the countertop. "I, uh --" She exhaled sharply. "I was just gonna say, like... I get off at nine if you wanna... hang out?" She caught herself, paused. "Jesus, that was gross. I'm sorry, that was weird, please don't tell Rebekah."

Reese smiled, softly, almost sadly -- it was the kind of smile you recognized if you also felt an inappropriate level of guilt for putting people in situations where they could embarrass themselves -- and said, voice low enough for just the two of them to hear, "Don't worry... like, honestly, I'd love to hang out."

"Yeah?" Amber straightened up a bit, moved a stray bang back into place. "That would be -- cool. Yes. Okay." She rolled her eyes. "Jesus Christ. I'm such a fucking dork."

"I tell them and tell them and tell them, 'No, I'm not interested in subscribing to your newspaper. I will never subscribe to your newspaper.' They are a dying industry." Rebekah re-entered, shaking her head. "Oh!" She registered Reese, still seated. "I'm so sorry, dear. I thought you'd left."

"It's okay!" Reese stood. "I'm actually heading out now. Thank you so much for all the coffee. It's delicious."

"Any time!" Rebekah replied, smoothing her apron with her palms.

Reese began to head for the door.

"Oh, excuse me!" Amber said. "You forgot your receipt." She held out a piece of paper.

"Oh -- right. Thank you." Reese smiled at Amber, then Rebekah, and headed outside. They looked at the paper in their hand. They couldn't help but grin goofily at Amber's hastily-scrawled phone number.