coffee shop

8

Jo

There's a knock at the door. I open it, expecting Beth to have lost her keys again. Instead, there are flowers on the stoop and a note attached to the bouquet.

I look around. Whoever left them was quick; there are no cars on the street and no walkers to be seen. I pick them up and bring them in, eager to shut out the cold air.

The note is handwritten and scrawled on a crinkled piece of notebook paper. There's no name signed to it—just a few words written in Sharpie. 

Come to the window

I hesitate. Though there's no name, I have a sneaking suspicion as to who left the flowers, but the note confuses me. 

My window? 

Despite this, I go to my room with the flowers and note in hand. As I approach the window, a light turns on in the window across. Lou stands there, smiling and holding a notepad in one hand, breathing heavily like he's been running. He waves.

I can't help it. I smile back. I hold up the flowers and mouth thank you, pressing my hand to my chin and drawing it out for emphasis. He grins back at me and holds up a finger, then scrawls something on his notepad. A few seconds later, he turns it around and presses it to the window.

Friends?

I have no excuse. Now that I know he lives right behind me, I can't pretend he doesn't exist—not that I would want to—and his gesture is making me smile like a child. I nod.

His smile is brilliant. He flips to a new page and writes something new, then presses it to the window for me to read.

How about that coffee?

He picks up a coffee cup from the window ledge and raises it at me. I roll my eyes, but I hold up one finger, put down the flowers, and jog to the kitchen. A minute later, I come back with a cup of tea. I raise it at him. As we toast and sip from our mugs, I wonder what his life is like on the other side of the glass. When he begins scribbling on his notepad again, I wonder if I'll get to find out.

* * *

Starbucks is hopping when Lou arrives the next morning. I've been in since four and have already forced down three shots of espresso.

"What'll it be today?" I ask as he props his elbows on the ledge behind my bar. I look up long enough to smile at him, then top off a caramel macchiato and start into another drink.

He's wearing a blue button-down, top two buttons undone, under his puffed jacket today. It makes his eyes seem brighter. He leans forward.

"Same old, same old, Karen," he says, reading my nametag and forcing the name out. "You know, this one is probably the furthest from your real name thus far."

"How do you know?"

"You look nothing like a Karen. You don't act like one, either."

"That's offensive to Karens everywhere," I tease. "What if my name actually was Karen?"

"If that were the case, I don't think you'd have put it on your name tag."

Fair point.

"About your coffee," I say, getting back on track, "do you really enjoy our espresso that much?"