but the sky is never gray | frank ocean.

sweet dreams are made of these

  ❝ Drive slow, homie.❞

              - Kanye West ft. Paul Wall. Drive Slow.

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Rowe threw upon the door of the local coffee shop with a tiny jingle, reveling in the strong odor of brew that hit her nose and the aggravated looking mascot that looked over her attire with artificial eyes spilling over with disgust.

The coffee cups, the menu, and even the little forest green aprons that the miserable looking staff were wearing all sported a angry male mermaid.

God only knows how this place hasn't been sued yet. But that was no problem of hers. The darkskinned dreadlocked beauty arrived at the shop in search of shitty coffee to take her mind of off...stuff.

Kanye West floated into her eardrums, whispering sweet nothings about nostalgia and leisurely driving, sharing space with that white guy with the fancy grills whose name she could never remember on time.

She made her way into the line of about three, four people, eyeing the light up menu behind the counter during her journey.

A reindeer frappucino (whatever the fuck that is) looks good, OOH but they've got that peppermint coffee. Haven't had that shit in a min–

A deep "Aye." disrupted her thoughts.

Rowe whirled around until she was face to face with a disgruntled hoodie clad man who had the nicest brown eyes she had ever seen.

The nicest brown eyes that seemed to hold a bit of irritation. But at least they're coupled with a nice ass face. His skin is so smooth, I wonder if he'd notice if I just like, tapped it. I wonder what his skin regime is.

"Are you good?" The stranger asked, his eyebrows now furrowed with obvious annoyance.

Rowe flushed the most subtle shade of red, embarrassed that she had been boldly ogling a perfect stranger.

"Yeah sorry, I, uhm, get distracted. You were saying?"

"You kinda just cut in front of me."

Her cheeks became an even deeper hue of red. How does one manage to fuck up something as simple as ordering some knockoff coffee?

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I didn't even notice. I'll just–"

Rowe made a couple pathetic attempts to shuffle around him without knocking into other customers, the sound of rubber soles against wood seemingly amplified throughout the shop, until he finally let out a sigh of exasperation and put his hand up.

"It's fine."

"Oh. Alright."

She spun around until the toes of her slides were facing the badly sanded wood counter, resisting the urge to itch through her velour sweatsuit now more than ever knowing there was an attractive guy behind her.

It was her turn to order soon enough (those three minutes felt like torture) and something resembling an order for seasonal coffee trotted out of her mouth.

It wasn't long before Rowe was sat on a not-uneven-enough-to-warrant-a-complaint-but-uneven-enough-to-be-irritating chair. As she waited for her coffee to be brought to her, the itching intensified until Rowe believed she had made herself comfortable on top of a red ant hill.

She indulged herself with one scratch, then two, until she felt raw, like she was full on ripping off layers of deep brown skin.

A familiar pair of brown eyes drifted onto her body, watching her movements.

Rowe hadn't indulged herself in a couple of days, so she knew it wasn't baseless paranoia. She let her own orbs glide upward until they were staring at the same twenty-something year old who had "aye"'d her not up to six minutes ago, who was now holding two cups of coffee.

He plopped onto the sorry ass seat on the other end of the wooden square table.

"These chairs suck."

Rowe rolled her eyes. "You can definitely sit down, thanks for asking mate," she muttered sarcastically, slightly embarrassed to have been caught.

"Of course I can. They called your name like three times, and I took it upon myself to bring your drink all the way over here," the stranger leveled a playful smirk at her. He employed a nice little American accent in addition to his good looks, and Rowe was in dire need of a distraction.

"I would've been fine," she mumbled.

The stranger raised an eyebrow as he sipped from his drink, pretending he didn't catch her sassy remark. "You come here often?"

Rowe resisted the urge to roll her eyes again at the corny pick up line, figuring she had reached her limit for the day. "Just when I get cravings." Just on cue, her forearm itched, and she used her mandarin orange acrylics to confront the issue.

"Cravings? They got it like that here?" The stranger inquired, looking down at his drink as if he was seeing in a different light. Even in their dim surroundings, Rowe noted how the skin around his almond shaped eyes crinkled, a classic sign of a charmed life.

We can pretend that's what I meant. Don't need to be telling strangers all my business, Rowe mused.

"You never been here before?" Rowe replied, deflecting his question with one of her own.

"Just here for the weather." Her eyebrows furrowed. It was maximum 10°C here and almost permanently gloomy, but she was in no position to be judging other's preferences, no matter how backwards they were. "Figured I should go out and get some fresh air, but I guess the universe ain't like that," he replied, gesturing with broad hands and veiny arm to the heavenly downpour outside, causing his chair to rock slightly.

Just my luck. Run away from one problem and straight into another. "Welp," Rowe uttered, packing her dreads into her hoodie as she stood. "I better get going before it gets worse." She directed her light brown eyes at him as if to make a point clear."It always does, you know."

"That's a kinda shitty outlook on life, don'tcha think?"

Rowe shrugged, the velour around her shoulders bunching up as her fingers clenched around the paper coffee container. "Maybe on life, not on London weather. Gotta get home now."

He rose, a mere three inches taller than her, even at his 6' of lean muscle, skin, and bone. "I'll walk you."

"I don't even know your name, and my mum taught me stranger danger." Her almond shaped nail (or not *hers*, she supposed) leveled at him almost accusatorily.

"Christopher. You can call me Lonny if you have to."

He clasped her petite hand in his, shaking it up and down. "Rowe."

And so they set off, the clapping of their soles serving along with the trademark London murkiness as a backdrop to their conversation.

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Rowe's fine ass in the mm.

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