Jeff Buckley

I

"Ahh," I cried out as the metal of the steaming cup burnt my hand, dropping it and with it the paint thinner frothed milk. "Fuck," I said bending down to wipe the mess I made.

"'Scuse me," a voice came from behind the wood painted formica counter.

"So sorry, one second. We're having a little clean up on aisle five down here."

"No take your time. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

I ran the rag under a chilled trickle of water, wrapping it around my knuckles, the cool fabric providing solace to my blistering skin. "That's awfully sweet," I started, standing up from the scuffed sandstone tiled floor, but I was almost stopped in my sentence when I laid eyes upon the voice from beyond the register. Glancing back at me with furrowed brows were the deepest brown eyes I had ever seen. I stood there for what felt like a lifetime appreciating what would have been voids if not for a reflection of light.

"Uhm... Can I order?" mystery angel asked, breaking me from my trance. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, likely tinging them a deep crimson.

"Oh my gosh, yes, I'm so sorry. I just had a little lapse, what can I get you?"

He ordered a tall latte with an extra shot of espresso under the name Jeff. Smiling at me with full lips and a wide grin, he handed me odd bills and clattering change, the cold callouses of his palms brushing against mine as he placed the cash into my blistered hands. Something in my stomach turned a little.

I could hear him whistle from the round wooden table in the corner, reading the June morning paper. It was a familiar tune, Song to the Siren I assumed. I couldn't help but steal glances at him from above the New York Times headline, his messy, sandy dark hair swirling around him like a crown of thorns. I don't know if it was the way his eyes met mine on occasion or the way he pretended not to notice as I glanced at him through the odd strands of hair poking out of my updo, but I couldn't help but feel a tinge of strawberry pool into my cheeks whenever his face rested on mine. As the machine groaned and creaked, pouring out a murky brew, I couldn't help but scrawl his name on the cup in the most romantic cursive, looping the J and flourishing the f's.

"Jeff," I called out, waiting for his pale complexion to peek over the paper, hoping maybe he was as eager to see my face as I was to see his. He set his paper down, the edges crumpling and dog-earring. I set it down awkwardly next to the register as he approached, wiping my hands on my simple floral dress. He smiled down at me, uttering a quiet thanks in his soft voice, digging through his pocket for change to drop in the tip jar.

"Oh you don't have to-" I started, only to be interrupted by the tinny ringing of the bell above the door followed but the shouting "Annie!" of a voice I knew too well.

My head spun around to see my best friend Ezra barging in, her hands already rummaging through her small, burgundy leather crossbody purse.

"Jeff, don't worry I got it," she said, pushing him out of the way and dropping the change in the empty ceramic dish with a loud chatter. His coffee splashed on his white v-neck as she shoved him to the side, a sound of distress following suit.
"Shit," he mumbled.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry. Let me get you a rag," I said scrambling through the drawers below.

"Ah, Annie don't worry. He's got a thousand more of those shirts and it was my fault anyways," Ezra said, propping her elbows on the counter and leaning over, putting all her weight on the table.

He's got more? I thought. How would Ezra know that?

"Oh, do you know each other?" I asked tentatively. Some part of me really hoped they weren't dating, despite the fact that Ezra was my best girlfriend.