The Psychology of Falling in Love

XXVII. December 27th

AN: slight mention of death, also accurate depiction of Aria ^

I groaned, the milk crate in my arms straining my shoulder tendons. "Door. Door! God, please, door!"

Lorraine shouted, "Hold your horses! Jesus, I'm coming!"

She grumbled as she unarmed the back door and hopped out of the cafe, holding it open for me. I waddled my way into the beautiful warmth. Adam stared at me, his eyebrows raised. He did offer to help, but I said...

"Nah man, I got this."

Well, I barely fucking had it apparently.

I squatted, trying my best to keep my back straight so I didn't throw it out. The crate slapped the floor and I piloted myself into a standing position. I stepped backwards and flipped it off, earning a chuckle from Adam. He began to restock the fridge, so I journeyed back to Lorraine at the counter.

We fell into a comfortable rhythm, her being the face of the shop, and me being the coffee and tea connoisseur. Now that the holidays were officially over, our specialty beverage list had-gratefully-gone back to our usuals. For the entire month of December, we celebrated a plethora of holidays: Hanukkah, the Winter Solstice, and finished it out with Christmas and Las Posadas.

Until next year, coquitos and non-alcoholic "mulled wine".

The door's bell rang and I glanced up. I saw a familiar face and grinned. "Hey, Freya!"

"Oh- Hi," the woman murmured, smiling. Her eyes still held exhaustion like a close friend, surrounded by dark circles. "I'm surprised you remember my name."

"Hard to forget the green hair and sick vibes," I say with a grin. "You want the usual?"

She shook her head. "No, just a green tea, please. Throat is sore."

I nodded and heated up some water while she paid. Instead of tea bags, we used loose-leaf, so the process took a bit longer to steep. Freya waited patiently, her hip against the counter as she scrolled through her phone. Once it was properly steeped, I took out the steeper and handed the warm cup over.

"You know where the sugar and cream are," I smiled. "Enjoy your writing, Freya." She nodded and made her way to her seat.

The next hour was full of doorbell jingles. Regulars came in by the droves, since this was our first day open after Christmas. It was a comforting, happy feeling to have regulars that weren't drunks or playboys. These regulars smiled politely, never threw drinks at me, and were more often than not some of the chillest people on the planet. Sure, bad eggs exist, but a lot less than a bar where people go specifically to let go of their inhibitions.

Adam and Sara, a 17-year-old new part-timer, waved Lorraine and I off for our break. We happily removed our aprons and speed-walked to the back room, piling on our layers to step outside for my nicotine addiction. Raine never once complained, even when I said she didn't have to follow me each time.

Fortunately, it wasn't quite that cold. The past week had easily never gotten above 20 degrees, but today was a brisk 35. We could still see our breath, heavily accentuated by my cigarette smoke, but it wasn't miserable.

"So," I began, toeing the compacted snow with the tip of my shoe. "Um, well..."

Raine tilted her head. "What's wrong?"

I blushed, praying it was hidden by the redness from the lake air, and my pulse quickened. "Uh, well. Nothing?"

She leaned against the railing. "Well, take your time," she said softly.