Let Your Day Go As Planned

Right: time to get dressed. First thing on the list, coffee date with Anastasia.

Ever since you’ve met Anastasia, there’s this feeling that her aesthetic — cutsie coquette, mixed with ‘Amish babe who just learned that showing cleavage will get them drinks’ — has been to signal you. Of what? You’re not sure. However, what you do know is that both the head atop your shoulders and the one confined in the khakis you’re slipping on are very much interested in the way she dresses when hanging out with you. But matching in style and reciprocating the silent flirting is beside the point — what you do enjoy is the shared love of music, lifestyle, and simple joys. Like coffee. You button up a cerulean blue shirt, completing a smart enough fit to blend in with the tech/business crowd, but casual enough to not stick out like a sore thumb from those less fashionably sensible.

As you head out the door, all you can do is tinker with your app, fiddling with different display settings and selecting different organizational functions on the bus ride into town — like the option to hide your screen from others around you. That’s a nice feature. But the nerves begin to build as the bus stops tick down to yours — still untested, still unknown if it still works, your app lies in the palm of your hand, waiting to be used.

The next few minutes are a blur, as when you walk into the coffee shop up until the very moment you tap your payment on the reader, you were engrossed in your app, thinking about the cute bassist, or a combination of the two. You don’t remember what you ordered, but when you get it, it’s sweet, creamy aroma mixed with the chocolaty, roasted bitterness strangely calms you, despite the caffeine content in a double shot latte. Oh, so that’s what you ordered.

By the time you sit down at a window side table at the bustling coffee joint, you catch a glimpse of the woman you’ve been waiting for as she walks through the door, refreshing that dry cool winter breeze as the aromas of freshly brewed arabica waft through the cycled air. True to expectation, Anastasia sports a low-cut brown sweater, joined by a cardigan that straightens her normally curvy figure, and a set of burgundy jeans that fit tight around her every section. She joins the short line behind the barista’s counter, glancing over the menu before scanning the room, and inevitably catching you in her sights. She turns a hand to you, waving a hand half covered by an oversized knit sleeve. But what captures your attention, past her hand, is her true blue eyes, the delicate freckles on her face as they seem to delineate where her golden blonde hair falls perfectly around her. And that smile — oh, that smile could light up a room, had it not been her calling to play bass in a jazz club that required dim light. As she collects her drink and makes her way over, you hastily finish up some last minute edits on the app and rapidly close out the tab — not that anyone can see your screen without your permission anyways.

A sweet melody makes its way to your ears: “Hey there, hacker man,” Anastasia comes up from behind you, her hand squeezing your shoulder as she brushes by, sets her coffee down and takes a seat in front of you. The **** with which she drops herself into the boho chair causes her chest to jiggle, nearly making her breasts pop out of the brown top, and she gives you a knowing glance. “So,” she leans back, and takes a sip of her coffee as the cardigan slips past her frame and rests on the chair, “are you done with your app yet? That’s a stupid question, I wouldn’t be here otherwise, and you’d be in your room slaving away, isn’t that right?”

The liquid feels like a rush of warmth down your throat, the satisfying latte foam decorating your lip before you unceremoniously wipe it off: “Yeah, I actually just pushed the final edits to the front this morning.” Another sip, “God it’s felt like forever that I’ve seen you. Since I’ve seen anyone, actually…”

“Been lonely?” She somehow manages to recline further, the relax position in her chair reflected in her tone. She glances off to some of the other people in the shop, while honing in on the conversation with you: “Bet some of those late nights were perfect for my music, huh?”

You’re reminded of the sultry expressions she’s played, fingers dancing over the strings of her double bass. Though they’re not always that noir-type feeling, you definitely are called back to those performances more than the rest, where only the lack of cigarette smoke, zoot suits, and rampant misogyny kept you tethered to the present. “Yeah, that’s probably true. Burning the midnight oil was a common occurrence these last few weeks — I don’t know, I just… I just couldn’t sleep, I had to get it done.”

She gives a reassuring nod. “No, I totally get you. Some nights are just meant to be like that, where you’re just too engrossed in your activity that you don’t notice the time go by, and then it’s like ‘Oop, it’s 3am!’” She breaks into a laugh, her face beautifully twisting as her cheeks bunch up with joy.

You laugh with her, adding to the lively aura that is the coffee shop. In here, with her, you feel much more at home than you did in your own domicile, cramped up in your office alone. That being said, it’s probably for the company and not the location, that makes your house a home.

Speaking of, now that your coffee is running a little low, do you want to keep going about your day, or do something else with Anastasia?