(Araimir's P.O.V.)
I believe in fate.
Though there is no actual, factual scientific evidence or theorems to prove it to be an actual, factual thing, I take comfort in the thought. That no matter what, things work out.
You meet people for a reason. You lose them, too.
So whenever my life is doing a crazy, downward spiral from, like, 25.2637 million feet above sea level (I hate heights), I can pause. And breathe. And reflect and think, 'Hey, this might not be so bad. What can I learn from this?'
...Is what I'd like to say.
Because while I acknowledge the whole peace, zen, reflect-on-your-life thing, I only really apply it after the crisis. During the crisis, I kind of freeze. And stutter. And stumble.
The most recent crisis? Well, right now. In a coffee shop, where I so humbly work, staring at the girl—the customer—in front of me.
She has brown hair with red highlights, pulled atop her head in a frantically messy bun, wearing a tee-shirt depicting a band I don't recognize. Some black makeup product is smudged beneath both eyes—like she'd tried to wipe it off, couldn't, and just decided to leave it there.
She's also staring at me with a rather fiery gaze, brown eyes sparking. Her lips are moving.
Is she talking?
"...re you going to take my order or what?" She jabs a finger dangerously close to my chest, her nails covered in chipped red polish.
She's been talking, it seems.
I smile, trying to cover up my mistake, though inside, I'm screaming. My skin flares pink, and suddenly it's like I don't know how to speak.
Did you know that when you see someone you like, your body reacts in such a way it would when being chased down by a vicious, sharp-toothed predator?
Because all I want to do is run right now... and a she most definitely looks like she'd eat me alive.
"Uh... yes." I swallow, aware of my every breath. "Welcome to Benny's! What... what would you like to order?"
My voice is far too high and squeaky. The words come out all disjointed and mumbled and I can't tell if she doesn't notice or doesn't care, but she goes right along talking. Maybe she really is just hungry, and doesn't want to bother with correcting my gibberish.
"The egg-sandwich, with absolutely no tomatoes and extra cheese, and some coffee. Just plain coffee." She pauses, carefully examining our rack of pastries on display. "The orange scone, too."
I realize I probably should've been writing this all down or punching it in.
I didn't.
But I play along anyway, praying I can remember all that she said. Forcing another smile—my cheeks ache, and they're heated with shame—I ask, "What's your name?"
She looks at me, and I interpret it as confusion. I rush to fix my mistake. "I mean—what's the name? For your order? So I can... call you up?" I let out a small squeak of surprise, realizing what I'd just said, and speak hurriedly. "Call you up as in, you know, when your food is here. And ready."
I swallow, hard. I want to go and bury myself right here, right now. I want to sink into the floorboards.
Her lips purse, and I expect to be mocked. But she smiles, almost as if she finds the whole ordeal amusing, and answers nicely enough. "Jaida. With an i."
The girl with the cool hair and the cool tee goes to the corner of the shop, sitting on a little booth, like she'd done it a million times. Her legs crossing, I watch as she pulls out a sketch pad.
She's got a really cute smile.
Again, I wonder if she'd noticed my awkward rambling and simply didn't care, or if she was polite enough not to point it out.
Realizing it's rather rude to stare, and not wanting her to catch me, I quickly scrawl her name on a cup in black Sharpie—remembering the i—and send back her order for it to be made.
I smile to myself. I feel so light now, airy. A swarm of butterflies flit around in my stomach.
An egg sandwich with absolutely no cheese and extra tomatoes. Oh, and the scone.
