Sing For Me

Chapter Two: Rob's Coffee Express

~~~A/N ~~~ 

You made it to Chapter Two! Thankyou-thankyou-thankyou!

*Reaches peak Abbey levels of excitement* 

Seriously, thank you so much for your time, I appreciate it! :) Emxx  

~~~ <3 ~~~

There's no doubting that my boss is a creep. Even although he's not on the level of a horror movie stalker, he's still the kind of past-his-prime forty-something that splits women into two groups—sweetie or love— otherwise known as creepy-man code for fuckable or unfuckable.

While most of the women he encounters fall permanently into one of these two categories, I have the unnatural ability—call it a superpower, if you like—to switch from one to the other. It continues to be an on-going experiment. Certain aspects of my mood, behaviors and my attire have stunning effects on my category transcendence. 

For example, a low-cut top with a trusty push-up bra and a smearing of red lipstick will firmly place me in sweetie, whereas three-week-old unshaven legs or green plant matter stuck in my teeth... well, that'll put me firmly into love territory.

Dressed in my everyday kind of look I could flip either way, and Rob's resulting morning salutation depends mainly on whether I'm late or not, and if there's a queue of customers when I arrive.

Today, walking in a grand total of twenty-three minutes late, dressed in a comfortable Tee and my favorite pair of jeans, I'm just in time to greet the last few stragglers of the Saturday eight-thirty rush.

"Meg, love! So nice of you to grace us with your presence!"

I try to refrain from rolling my eyes. "I slept in, Rob. I'm sorry. I'll make it up at the end of the day, promise. Wait—no, I'll make it up Monday morning." I reply, remembering the baby-faced hell I'm in for tonight.

Rob rolls his eyes and grunts the macho grunt of a man who purposely flicks the top two buttons on his shirt undone when his wife's not looking.

Maybe living life as a love isn't such a bad thing after all.

I schmooze myself behind the counter and wink at Aurora—a gorgeous punk chick who makes killer coffee and never gets called love no matter how late she is.

Regardless of my creepy boss and the fact that working as a cashier in a coffee shop isn't exactly my dream job, I am grateful to have a job. And working in a more boho area of town, I do get to meet a lot of interesting people. Musicians. Writers. Film students. I like the particularly weird ones; mainly because they can turn a monotonous day into an exciting one, but also because they remind me of all the different ways one can be in a world gone mad. That there is more to humans than just work, sleep, eat, repeat.

Because it seems to me that one minute you have everything figured out, and the next you realize that you have been staring into the wrong mirror. Perhaps you look into another and things are completely upside down, and your head is even where your heels used to be.

* * *

It was just past two o'clock when I telepathically told Rob to shove his measly job where the sun doesn't shine—which wasn't just you-know-where if his pasty whiteness was anything to go by.

While the steady stream of caffeine addicts hadn't abated, I was well overdue for a lunch break and so hungry I had almost thrown myself face-first into the strategically placed counter-top cookie jar. Shooting Rob an 'if you dare say something about this there will be consequences' death glare, I drag myself out from behind the counter and dumped what was left of me at my favorite table, tucked away behind a corner and partially out-of-sight of the rest of the café. 

My feet hurt. My eyes hurt and my stomach grumbled. Worst of all, I had forgotten to pack myself lunch in my haste to escape overexcited Abbey and all things Babel, and I really couldn't afford to buy it. Fishing through my work bag, I noticed another gaping empty space where my wallet should have been. I rolled my eyes to the ceiling and slammed my head down onto the table.

Ouch. 

But hey, sometimes you have to suffer to be melodramatic.

Fantastic. Of all the combinations of things to forget, why did it have to be lunch and my wallet?

I'm totally blaming Babel for this... I bet they're never short on lunch money.

"I'm sorry about the rush, love. Here, I thought you could use a pick-me-up." Rob slides a latte and a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel towards me. My favorite.

"Thanks," I mumble. Because, sure, Rob might be a creep pretty much 24/7, but he can still be thoughtful sometimes. And that's... something.

Although, I mean, it probably has more to do with his concern for his customers' well-being than my own—there's nothing is worse than a hangry cashier to ward off repeat business.

Rob disappears back into the kitchen and I bite into the bagel. I devour half of it and start to feel slightly more human, and slightly less like I will cause extreme bodily harm to the next person who inadvertently attempts to talk to me. But now that my hunger is taken care of and my brain doesn't feel like mush, my mind strays back to Babel.

The weight of Abbey's Spotify playlist on my conscience starts to feel increasingly conspicuous. I begrudgingly stuff my earbuds into my ears, while polishing off the last of my bagel. 

After all, I did promise.

And with all those cameras... I shudder involuntarily. 

I would probably look weird if I wasn't singing along. Maybe I'd even become the face of the next meme... 'Unimpressed Meg' or something equally as mortifying.

Five-part harmonies melt into a single supple voice. Predictably, each singer gets a verse that matches their mandated personality profile.

Boy bands really haven't changed much at all since the nineties. Same sellable formula, same predictably handsome baby-faces. I read in The Goss that two Babel members had laser hair removal to reduce their tell-tale five o'clock shadows.

Flicking through the tracks I find their infamous sixteen-weeks-at-number-one hit, You're the One, known by babblers as the hot seat serenade. Surprisingly, it's actually okay. I might even go so far as to call it catchy... though not anywhere in Abbey's vicinity, that would just be asking for trouble.

When it finishes, I flick it back to the start. By the third playing, I have a good handle on the chorus, and I can hum along during the verses—but the coda still gives me a bit of trouble. There is something about it. It is definitely not merely a reorganization of the same four chords... Wait. 

Does it slip key into the relative minor? Since giving up on choir when I left school, my music theory's a bit rusty.

I barely register when another coffee is placed on the opposite end of my table. Or the complementing chocolate chip cookie. In fact, nothing about this unwelcome arrival seems to register at all until butt cheeks firmly plonk into the seat opposite me. 

And while I do my utmost to downplay my annoyance—mainly for the sake of my job, than for the sake of this intrusive... person—I can't help but glance up incredulously and scowl.

~~~ A/N ~~~

Thank you for reading the second chapter of Sing For Me! 

Remember to leave a vote if you liked this story, and let me know what your go-to coffee order is in the comments below ;)

Have a lovely day!

Emxx

~~~ <3 ~~~