Haven

P1/C1- velvet and vanilla

It was any other morning at Velvet and Vanilla. The soft morning  sun was filtered through the window, casting dark and light streams throughout the empty café. It was one minute before opening time on the first Monday of April. The café was cold, mainly from the immersion being turned off throughout the night to allow the black and white floor tiles to cool and the windows to form a promising sweat on each sheet of regularly cleaned glass. Mrs Munroe always took pride in the appearance of her café, always filling the windows with green fern plants in terracotta pots for which she believed "Put extra oxygen in the room which allowed people to have a fresh and clear mind every time they walked in" .   The checkerboard tiling on the floors supported the Parisian style table sets that were placed strategically so that everyone could see everyone while they ate their morning pastries, feeling like they were in a delicious part of Paris rather than downtown New York.

I took in the brief silence before the usual rush came in, letting my breath flush against the cool glass and then disappearing as if I were never there. I flipped the sign from 'closed' to 'open' and made my way back to the counter and waited patiently, my fingers drumming against the countertop. I had always wandered if eating a croissant in Paris would be a different experience to eating one in a Parisian style café in New York.  I can only imagine that they would taste a whole lot better in Paris than they would at any other place on the Earth. Not that Mrs Munroe's recipe was not of that standard-The French native would kill me if I said so. 

From the first chime of the bell behind the door, the café tables were always occupied by someone, with a life, with a family, a career. My curious eyes watched the scene in front of me in-between serving customers. I enjoyed trying to guess where each person came from, how many kids they had, what they were going to order based on what they looked like. It probably sounded prejudice, but I only did It because not only did I enjoy guessing right, but I loved guessing incorrectly. Being pleasantly surprised that everyone seems different, yet sometimes you learn that in more ways than you may think. I sure did. That was why I was I there, in downtown New York. 

The door chimed open for the final time that evening, the sun had now moved 180 degrees to the west, and was sending its final rays through the dark green leaves in the window. I glanced up, my eyes immediately landing on the lean figure that steadily moved toward me.  I studied him, from the bottom up, not much differently from the rest of the customers that attended Munroes. I noticed that he was tall, in shape but not over built, his trench coat reaching just short of the knee, a dark jumper beneath complimented by a rusty orange scarf that dangled unevenly. 

Though this time was different, Before I could even come to a decision on whether he would order a latte or flat white, he placed his palms flat on the counter and spoke. 

"Americano, no sugar, no milk" He rasped, his voice low.  I could sense that he was impatient. I could tell by the fact that his foot tapped rhythmically against the floor. My eyes met his, and again I paused. His eyes bored into me, his irritance almost swimming in them as he watched me intensely. I put it through the cash register. An action that I had been doing every day for two weeks had all of a sudden became a task, the sheer intensity of his stare putting me off entirely. This man could not simply be watching me, he was scrutinising me. What scared me most was the fact that this man was most likely doing it on purpose. He was trying to get me to break under his stare.

"That will be with you shortly, take a seat and I will bring it over to you as soon as I can " I smiled. I didn't need this male model to ruin my day. Why are all beautiful men so ugly on the inside? With just a huff in acknowledgement he strode to the table and took a seat out of the light, perhaps in the darkest corner of the café. Maybe all elements in his life are as dark as his coffee. Maybe if he tried a latte he would be more cheerful. I thought. 

His coffee was placed in front of him carefully; I was  careful not to disturb him who had his head down and scrawling messily on a piece of paper. I decided not to say anything and leave him alone. Everyone has their bad days, perhaps he would be happier on other occasions. So I did my round, cleaning tables and doing the usual and taking another fresh batch of bread out of the oven. It was only when Mrs Munroes son waltzed through the doors at the front of the shop that there was any noise in the café. Caleb was a character to say the least. Although he didn't develop his mothers strong accent and perfectionist ways, he was hilarious and always brightened my day, especially when I've had to deal with my fair share of rude customers. 

"Hey beautiful, long day?" He grinned, his blue eyes sparkling as he came around and wrapped me in his arms. Caleb and I would never work romantically, I see him more as a brother considering his mother was basically my own. Not to mention the fact that he has a girlfriend and I will never be ready for a relationship, my last was enough to keep me happily single and away from men for good. 

"Sure was " I sighed into his chest before he let me go. 

"hey lover boy, mind if you let me pay? I'm on a schedule" The aggravated voice broke the comfortable silence to which I turned to face the frustrated customer. Caleb visibly frowned at the handsome man, but decided to remain quiet and head into the back room while I take the payment. 

I mentally cussed in my head at the man before me. How could he be so rude? If he had waited for one more second he would have been served.  I sighed inwardly in gestured toward the cash register. I decided, for my own enjoyment and the hope that he would never come back, to drag it out longer than it needed to be. Taking my time pressing buttons to the point that I could nearly see steam coming out of his ears. I was about to press the "confirm payment button" When I glanced up to take in his reaction. His eyes were electric, yet not completely so. They had an underlying dimness, perhaps not with the lighting in the room, but something deeper than that. The only way I knew was my father had the same thing. My father was a best selling author at one point in his life - a hopeless romantic but not to the public eye. He saved that for my mother who was his inspiration, his anchor and the thing that made him fly.  He mainly stuck to writing funny children's books about adventuring, basing some of his stories on myself. But another talent of his was writing for my mother- until she left.  He always told me that I was all that he needed to stay happy, but as time went on, the light began to dim from his eyes, looking almost sunken into his skull before I lost him too. 

That man had the same expression. That expression of being lost and angry in a world that  shed more darkness than light. 

He threw the correct change at me across the counter and left without another word.