nirvana ⋄ punk luke

1

three years later
dylan|

Pale thin fingers drummed absentmindedly against the marble counter, and I tapped a beat out on the side of my stool with the toes of my sneakers as I leaned my head in the palm of my hand. The smell of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon buns filled the air around me, and the whiz of the ceiling fan was starting to give me a headache.

It was a quiet Sunday morning at the Narrow Bean Cafe, a small coffee shop downtown, and with everyone already situated and scattered around reading and drinking our famous vanilla bean iced lattes, I had nothing to do.

Calum and Madison were off work today, and without the usual afternoon rush of customers, there was no one here to provide me with any entertainment. Needless to say, there was no action, and I was dying of boredom with each passing minute.

The thought of texting someone ran through my mind, and I just as I went to dig my cell from the pocket of my apron, the door pushed open, sending a blast of cool air into the heated room. My head popped up and I adjusted the green visor on my head before allowing my blue eyes to fixate themselves on the tall boy standing at the door.

I watch as he takes a slow, deliberate drag of a cigarette before he leans down and presses it gently against the concrete. He exhales, tucks it behind his ear and with a slow, lazy gait he finally makes his way towards me.

Tousled, soft looking strands of blonde hair fall over one of his eyes, and a thin, white bandage sits over the bridge of his upturned nose. With his hands jammed in the pockets of the dark jeans he wore, and his eyes squinted at the menu above me, I waited anxiously as he finally stepped right up to the counter.

I tried to think of something to say, something better than our plain old ordinary 'customer greeting'. I came up short. "Welcome to the Narrow Bean Cafe, can I help you?" It was the mandatory greeting, but I swallowed and attempted to smile a little wider than usual.

"Um," he scrunched his nose up and nodded his head at the menu above me, "What's good here?"

Now usually when asked a question like this, I'm supposed to give the offending person an 'are you stupid?' look, throw my hair over my shoulder a little, and say it like I mean it, "Everything!"

You know, the way Madison does it.

But that wasn't the case. For one, I knew for a fact that the mocha brownies were absolutely too thick and just pretty much disgusting, the hot chocolate we had, had too much sugar to be actually drinkable, and that we never really had 'iced coffee'. Just hot coffee right from the pot with some creamer and a few pieces of ice in it, that would presumably melt by time the person got it.

My smile faltered a bit, and I turned my head up at the menu to look at it. "Well, the vanilla iced latte is pretty good."

"That sounds disgusting," he shook his head, and reached behind him in his back pocket to take out a worn, leather black wallet. "Whatever, just get me a coffee."

He sounds irritated, and I hesitate. Did I do something wrong? "Um, yeah. Of course, how would you like it?" I mutter, with a nod; not looking him in the eye.

"Black, no cream or sugar." He answers back quickly, briefly sounding annoyed.

"So just coffee beans and water?" I ask baffled, I've never heard of anyone who drank coffee like that. "Are you sure? We have hazelnut creamer, and a lot of people really like that."

The boy just stares at me as if I'm the biggest idiot there ever was and I swallow before quickly nodding, "Sorry. One black coffee coming up. No cream, no sugar."

And because it's only me here today, I hold up a finger indicating him to wait just a minute and then I turn my back to him and set out to making his very plain coffee. Gently lifting the coffee pot, I carefully pour it into a large Styrofoam cup; making sure to add one of our decorative coffee cup sleeves so it's not too hot.

I cap it and turn back around to face him, before placing the coffee next to the register. He stares at me, his eyebrows furrowed and under his impassive scrutiny, I nervously tap out his order on the till.

"That'll be $2.78," I tell him, and then I watch as he digs into his wallet taking out two crumpled dollar bills, three quarters, and two pennies. He tosses it all down onto the counter and I scramble to get a penny before it rolls off onto the floor.

I find this odd because usually people aren't this precise with their change, but I gather it anyway and put them in their appropriate places in the drawer. The receipt prints and I grab it to hand to him, "Thanks for ordering at the Narrow Bean Cafe, please come again."

He grabs his coffee, then stares at me once more before turning abruptly, and walking briskly towards the door.

The slight tinkle of the wind chime announces his exit, and I watch as he pauses to light his cigarette again before he disappears around the corner.

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