Mysterious Beret Woman Tells Jake to Go to College

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I've never been to Chicago before, but it was odd that I needed a jacket for the end of June. I could feel the crisp air seeping through the microscopic holes in the fabric. I don't really know what I'm doing here, but then again I don't really have a reason for anywhere I went as of recent. As I walked the littered concrete I looked over to my left and saw a coffee house that was oddly placed in between some abandoned offices. It had blue awnings over the glass doors, a logo of a hummingbird plastered on the brick wall. I could hear subtle folk music leaking out into the air every time someone opened the door. It was oddly placed in a trashy area, being the cleanest establishment I had seen all day.

I jaywalked the street, kicking a few cans of Bud Light into the gutter on the way. I looked over at the outdoor seating, my gaze meeting the eyes of a woman perched at the metal table, a sketchbook in hand. She was Asian of some sort, with black hair that abruptly ended in a clean cut at the middle of her neck. She wore a raspberry-colored beret, something that was rather out of fashion in this decade. She must have noticed that I was staring because her body folded in shyness when she looked up and her eyes met with mine. She was gorgeous, to say the least, and here I was looking like a total homeless native to these streets in ragged clothes that I picked up from a thrift shop in Kansas months ago. I began running through reasons to justify why I should sit outside and begin to make conversation with her. Maybe I could pull one of those "Hey, you look familiar. Have we met before?" kinds of things. That would work. Whatever would get me her number, right?

I swung open the glass door, a wave of warm air hitting my face. I walked inside, making my way to the counter to order a latte. It was only a few moments later until I received my drink, swaying back and forth to the sounds of folk music playing from a record player in the corner as the ceramic mug warmed my chilled hands. I had my coffee, now what? Was I going to make my way outside to sit by that pretty girl, or would I cower inside this warm, comfortable room? My idea didn't seem so genius anymore. I sat down at a round table on the opposite side of the window where she was. I caught my eyes glued to that sketchbook as I watched Mystery Beret Girl create a masterpiece of the street directly in front of her. The gutters were littered with garbage, yet her drawing had nothing of the sort in it. Even though she was creating what she saw in front of her, it resembles more of what it could be rather than what it truly was. She looked up from her paper to grab a drink of what I assumed was black coffee. Sophisticated women drank black coffee. That was intimidating. This was my chance. I needed to go outside and introduce myself. I grabbed my mug and walked out the door and towards the metal seating. At first, I hovered a few feet away from her, clearing my throat.

"May I?" I asked. She looked up, puzzled.

"If you really want to," she said, her eyes making her way back down to her sketchbook. I took a seat on a metal chair across from her. I thought for a few minutes on how to properly introduce myself, making the atmosphere more awkward than it already was. She could tell I was having a hard time and she began before I could muster up the courage to talk. "What's your name?" She asked me. It was cold from the wind, and the only thing warming me at this point was my drink.

"J-Jake," I said, stuttering. She held herself confidently as she spoke to me, and that was something that threw me off. "Back to you. You are?"

"Addie."

I nodded, feeling the tension in the air. I definitely felt unwelcomed at this table by her eye contact and closed off body language. But I couldn't abandon this conversation just yet. "Do you live here in Chicago?" Talk about the dumbest question ever. Way to go, Jake.

Addie tore the paper from her sketchbook, crumbling it up and tossing it into her bag beside her. I wondered if she didn't want me to view her masterpiece... or maybe she didn't like it. She studied me, her pencil getting back to work, the sound of graphite against the scratchy paper barely audible over the unbearable wind. "Yeah. I attend School of the Art Institute here. I'm in my third year as an illustration major," she said. "What about you?"

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