Misfits

3 | heartfelt chats over coffees and laser beams

❝i don't know where i'm going from here, but i promise it won't be boring❞
ｄａｖｉｄ ｂｏｗｉｅ

___

   ＩＴ starts again in a cafe in Lucerne.

That acute feeling I get whenever the three of us are gathered together. I've never described it to Cole or Emma before, but the feeling is equivalent to a hundred and eight tiny elves tap-dancing on the lobes of my brain with ski poles. Like all the neurons in my brain are firing all at once, trying to alert me of some imminent danger.

Wonderful.

The cafe in question happens to be the one and only Madame Florentino's. It's not quite as grand or decorous as it appeared on the websites, or in my vision, but it still has a rather charming air to it. I suppose.

The coffee is nice at least.

As I take a long sip of my second iced frappe (also known as my fourth purchase of the hour), I try to drown out the feeling that something bad is about to transpire, focusing instead on my surroundings.

Madame Florentino's is relatively deserted, which does nothing to help the fact I've been sat here for almost two hours, ordering a new item off the menu every now and then to give Madame Florentino (the cafe owner, who had given me a very enthusiastic and detailed overview of her family tree, explaining the 'Madame Florentino' in the cafe name was actually her great-grandmother-in-law — though she was the one to apparently bring it back from the brink of ruin) something to do other than shoot me surreptitious glances whenever she believes I'm not looking.

The cafe is sequestered quietly out of the way in an old stony plaza that faces a medievalesque courtyard. It's a niche zone, untainted by the typical buzz of tourists, brandishing their selfie sticks and I 'Heart' Lucerne tees, that seem to invade every other corner of the city. That's not to say the square is completely abandoned. Locals and connoisseurs of all kinds flock to the petit cafe and the other independently owned businesses surrounding the central courtyard.

In the centre of the court is a large antique clock tower that I remember from my vision. I take another sip of my frappe before releasing a sigh, my gaze drifting to the thin black metal spokes that sprout from the centre of the clock. It's not midday yet, so Cole and Emma aren't technically late.

I brought this situation on myself. The message I'd sent them said to meet at exactly noon, but I couldn't risk missing them — not after how long it took me to track them down in the first place.

The late summer weather is making my coffee lukewarm. The ice cubes in my frappe have melted, diluting its initial sweetness, and eventually I have to force myself to stop drinking before I feel nauseous. I twiddle my fingers in anticipation, a feeble attempt to keep my hands occupied and away from the cup.

A deep chime of a church bell rings through the courtyard and I look up to see the dark spindly clock hands whir around to meet each other just below the '12'. It's finally midday.

They should be here soon.

This thought comforts me enough to relax a little into my seat, as I do my best to ignore Madame Florentino's gaze burning into the side of my head. Somewhere along the line, the not-so-subtle stares morphed from curiosity into pity and now she has even brought out her husband to come join the pity party.

You don't need to be a psychic to guess what's she's thinking: to her it looks like I just got stood up by my date.

I remind myself to simply be grateful that she hasn't kicked me out of her cafe for dawdling, but when she begins explaining her theory on why I got stood up to her spouse, I can't help but glance over to the whispering pair.