Quicksand

04|| Yes, No, Maybe

4

Yes, No, Maybe

THE TASTY CAFÉ WAS FAMOUS FOR its delicious treats and gourmet coffee. The owner, a young immigrant from South America purchased his coffee beans – Hawaiian Kona – from a vendor in Hawaii. A half an hour drive from hotel Afrique. There was hardly anyone in the coffee shop Monday morning. Checking her planner on the phone, Amara waited for her cup of coffee by the mullioned window. The sun that was orange only an hour ago, shining warmly upon the chilled soil, was gone. The fluffy white clouds turned a dark greyish colour in the blink of an eye.

"Double iced latte with one pump of sugar-free vanilla," the scruffy, cashier called.

Even though she walked, it felt more like the floor was a conveyor belt and she the cow in the carnage house approaching the captive bolt. Amara reached out for her coffee, only to be railroaded by a man in a suit. The stranger she kissed at the flea market stood before her, in all his glory. He looked dapper in a tailored mint suit.

"For Amara," the cashier clarified.

Taking her cup, she slowly pried it out of his hands. "Excuse me."

"I'm sorry. You just ordered the same drink as me."

"Vanilla? A little sweet for someone like you."

He chuckled, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Someone like me... What am I like?"

"I don't know." Amara slid her phone into her handbag. "Not so vanilla."

His laugh was sudden and short, engaging a dimple on his left cheek. Amara took the time to examine him. He seemed different. At the cusp of winter, his skin was an ochre, much like the mellow-brown light that bathed the forest.

"So... the kissing bandit has a name. Amara," he tasted it on the tip of his tongue like the first sip of coffee. "Beautiful. You are beautiful."

Flashes of lightning followed by claps of thunder haunted the sky as the rain started drizzling like a broken tap.

"Do you mind saying that a few more time? Your voice is amazing."

He spoke with a slight accent that she couldn't place. It had a song-like quality that reminded her of swaying tides.

"Not at all." He smiled boyishly, "You are very beautiful, Amara."

Amara sipped her coffee to ease her constricted throat and tried to pull her gaze away. She succeeded for all of two seconds, then he snatched back her attention. Effortlessly.

"Thank you."

"What are the odds of us ordering the same drink at the same time?"

"I'd say the odds of two random people ordering the same thing are about 1 in 10."

"Good with numbers."

"Good with everything." She picked up her doughnut and took a straw. "I thought you were a tourist. At least I had hoped that our run-in would be the last time we saw each other."

"Sorry to disappoint. I'm a native. I work close by," he said. "I'm assuming you've seen the finished building down Pike street?"

"Ahh! You work for the fascists."

His voice was gruff, and his brows were drawn together in a frown... and yet the eyes twinkled with humour. "Fascists?"

"The moon prince," she responded. "Rumour has it that every building with that branding is owned by the family that built Makavia. The one-percenters who think that gentrification will somehow save the people from the unemployement crisis and stop children from dying of hunger."