THE ADVENTURES OF FRANK AND RYAN

5

It's another day at Calamitous Coffee, but this time, Ryan is alone. Grey insisted he had better things to do than take on an extra shift, and there's no open mic night to look forward to, so for a late-afternoon shift, everything has been going normally—that is, slowly. Ryan served a few coffees and teas here and there, but his shift is over, and now he's in the breakroom picking up his jacket, ready to head out. He rehearses a conversation between himself and Grey about a woman he served who had a puppy strapped to her front like a baby as he walks back towards the front of the café, humming absentmindedly to himself. As he approaches the service counter, he considers jumping over it instead of using the built-in door like a normal person, but before he can finish this thought, his eyes flit over to someone standing in front of the cash register, their back turned towards him as they look out at the cafe.

"Oh!" Ryan exclaims, catching the attention of the unattended customer, surprised nobody has come to serve them. "Have you been helped ye—Francis?"

"Hi," Francis says, and only then does Ryan realize it really is Francis, guitar-in-case hanging from his back, a metallic, silvery pick pinched between his fingers. Ryan watches as he flicks it through his other fingers, then back again to his thumb, the pick making a fwip fwip sound between each movement. He has to shake his head to draw his attention away from the effortless movement of Francis's hand, how naturally the pick glides between his fingers.

"That's a cool pick," Ryan comments, squinting at it. "It's really. . . ." He pauses, suddenly dizzy. As he leans against the counter for balance, Francis tucks the pick away in his jacket pocket.

"Are you, uh," says Francis, concern lining his face, "are you okay?"

Ryan allows a few seconds to pass for his vision to steady before responding, nodding his head. "Yeah, yeah, I'm just—" he releases a breath of a laugh. "Anyway, that was cool. That thing you did. With the pick. How'd you get so good at that?"

"Oh, that?" Francis tucks his hands into his pockets, shrugging. "It's nothing. I'm just good with my hands."

Ryan purses his lips, processing Francis's explanation, until—"Wait, what?"

Francis's eyes widen with realization. He coughs, then, a little too loudly, "Do you know where Green is?"

"Grey?"

"Yes, Greg—I mean, Grey." Francis clears his throat. "Is he here?"     

Ryan shakes his head, knocking a fist against the countertop absentmindedly. "Oh, no. He's not working today. I think he's actually at band practice now which—shouldn't you be there, too?"

Francis's eyes manage, somehow, to go wider than they already are. "Oh boy. Oh boy, he's gonna kill me. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. I'm such a pendejo. Kill me. Fuck. Piss. Shit."

"Hey, Francis, hey, shouldn't you have his number? Can't you call him and explain?" The last thing Ryan wants is to see Francis have a full-blown breakdown right in front of his very eyes over something that isn't that big of a deal, really.

Francis draws in a long, deep breath. He holds it for one whole second before letting it deflate out of him. Then, right when Ryan thinks he's calmed down, he says, all in a rush, "Okay, don't tell him I said this, but he scares me sometimes, and whenever he opens his mouth, I feel my ancestors shrink away in fear."

"Oh?" Ryan quirks his eyebrows.

"Like, listen, I get it, he's got some broody atmosphere going on—" Francis holds up his hands, and shakes them with such emphasis that Ryan is impressed "—but when you're white and look like you're a serial killer in disguise it is legitimately upsetting."