LIPS OF FUMES

| 01. GOLDEN DAYS WITH A SIDE OF SMALL TALK

C H A P T E R 0 1
GOLDEN DAYS WITH A SIDE OF SMALL TALK
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     THE WORLD POSSESSES A PLETHORA of beautiful things, but none of them can quite compare to the sensation that resurfaces in me every time I walk into a coffee shop.

     The dulcet tunes seeping from the record player adds to the pleasant but prestigious aura of the shop, strengthened by the floor-to-ceiling windows that open up to the streets and the color scheme that alternates every season. With the high chairs lining the counter that serve as pops of color in the white backdrop, the daily menu scribbled down on the blackboard with white chalk, and the minimalistic photographs taken by the shop-owning family themselves lining the pristine walls, Café Dumont is undoubtedly the most aesthetically pleasing establishment to ever have graced this town.

     However, it's a completely different sight at five in the morning.

     "Good ungodly hours of the morning and welcome to Café Dumont! Our drinks are one-hundred-percent free of toxicants, drugs, or human waste."

     I stifle a bubble of laughter, the absence of fatigue in my composure contrasting the dim atmosphere of the cafe. The girl behind the counter, resembling a Greek goddess underneath the mellow lighting, makes a mark on her book page and sends me an easy smile.

     Almond. Tinge of olive. Caramel. Subtle freckles—spray across bridge of the nose. Hollowed cheekbones. Chopped hair. Chalk gold. Prominent collarbones. V-neck. Askew nametag.

     "What can I get you? Oh—and we're more professional after morning rush hour, if I'm making that bad of an impression."

     "No worries," I pipe, shifting idly from foot to foot. My system's in dire need of a caffeinated drink after hours upon hours of sifting through journal pages throughout the night. "And I don't know—coffee, maybe? You can specify it, but don't make it too expensive, please."

     "Got it."

     I plonk my ass down onto one of the chairs lining the counters and review on how the hell I got here in the first place.

     Yesterday morning, I remember catching a blurred glimpse of the café as I towed my luggage around the building and up the flights of stairs behind (due to a flaw in the elevator that resulted in it only being able to carry at most two full-grown people and, at that time, the weight of one of my suitcases alone already exceeds the average weight of five overweight men). Renting an entire floor out of an apartment complex above a coffee shop will probably prove to be a great choice on my part, since I've never been one to associate myself with any form of continuous, sweat-inducing physical exercise to get coffee every morning and night.

     Avonridge was mundane to foreigners beyond the town's boundaries but entirely different from the inside perspective. After parting ways with my parents, I looked through a compiled list of small towns, took my pick, wounded up here, and quite liked my luck.

     "So, you new here?" she queries, dumping the remnants of a milk carton in the coffee machine. I attempt to read the smudged Sharpie scrawl on her nametag, but come up with nothing. "We don't usually get anyone running up for coffee at 4:57 in the morning."

     "Moved in upstairs yesterday morning, slept through the entire day, stayed up 'til now, then came to a revelation that I'm incredibly parched."

     The girl snorts. "Rather unconventional—how this discovery occurred at this very specific time, don't you think?"

     I shrug. "I pride myself in unplanned attainments of knowledge."