Beans Café

What's in a Name?

Tuesday

It's raining. Again. It's about 3 pm, and I'm stuck waiting for my ride again. I've been burning time at the little coffee shop, Beans Cafe, since the store I work at closes early this time of year. 
A deep frown is etched on my face as I trudge through the rain toward Beans. 
I'm more focused on my thoughts (which are all grumblings about the rain) than anything else, and as a result, I walk right into some unsuspecting person.
"I'm so sorry! Are you okay!?" 
"I'm okay, but my trash bag looks to be in critical condition. Oh, and it's nice to see you again!"
A smile softens my face as I realize I just collided with the poet from yesterday. My smile fades when my eyes fall to the busted trash bag on the ground.
"I guess I'm something of a trash bag murderer," I say with a hint of laughter in my voice.
" I won't turn you in if you help me clean up the evidence."
I laugh at the poet's solemn expression and nod. 
"But I demand gloves!"
I try to mimic the poet's serious face but find myself breaking down and laughing again.
"Deal"
Before I know it, we've shaken hands to seal our deal, and we're both picking up trash with gloved hands and goofy smiles.
As we finish cleaning up the mess I made, we peel off our gloves and add them to the new trash bag.
"I think I'm better at this than you are!"
"Just don't tell my boss, she'll happily trade up"
Laughter rumbles from both of us as we walk toward the dumpster.
I watch the poet fling the bag into the dumpster effortlessly and let out a low whistle.
"Whoa there! I didn't know you were an Olympian and a poet!"
Our jokes and laughter continue as we enter the cafe, and I take my place in the same booth I sat in yesterday. The poet returns to work, and I find myself doing something I never dreamed of.
I pull out my phone and begin tapping away at the screen, attempting to write some kind of poem.
I am satisfied that I have no writing skills by the time the poet joins me at the booth.
"Hey, how's the friendly neighborhood trash bag murderer doing?"
"I have managed to avoid prison for my crimes, so I'm ten out of ten right now. What about you?"
An expression I don't recognize appears on the familiar stranger's face.
"I never got your name yesterday or found out why you popped up here all of a sudden. You haven't ordered anything, so you can't be here for the coffee."
I smile at the questions, realizing that I have questions too.
"1) I didn't give you my name, Sherlock, and 2) no one comes here for the coffee. You guys have free wifi."
I sit back triumphantly as I add my closing remark.
"Plus, you haven't given me your name either."
The poet grins at my accusation.
"That's because I'm wearing a nametag, Sherlock." 
I immediately burn with embarrassment as the realization dawns on me. Yesterday and today, they were, in fact wearing a nametag.
"I can't read that! It's handwritten, and the handwriting sucks."
The poet raises an eyebrow at my remark and leans in as if they are about to share the world's best-kept secret.
"It's just a font. I'm sure you can read it if you find a way to see around that ego of yours."
I find myself floundering for a response.
"I'll read it for you."
I glare at the poet, sensing there's a catch.
"After you tell me your name."
I roll my eyes, trying to maintain my calm facade in the heat of my embarrassment.
"Nope! You tell me your name first. The customer is always right, after all."
I smirk evilly as I reveal my power play and cross my arms.
"Well, you haven't bought anything, so technically you're just loitering. I owe you zero customer service."
I glare at the triumphant smirk on the poet's face.
"So, if I order something, you'll tell me your name?"
"When you put it like that, I sound like some kind of bully."
I dart out of the booth with a mischievous look in my eyes and a beaming smile on my face.
I march up to the counter and begin scanning over the menu.
The woman behind the counter wears a polite yet amused smile on her face. Clearly, she heard the exchange back at the booth and found it hilarious.
"What do you recommend, ma'am?"
"Try that one!" the poet pipes up from behind me, pointing at a frilly and bright drink. 
"Super Summer Blast? Really? Do I look like a super summer blast kind of person?"
"Well, a real customer would want to try the new promotional drink."
I squint at the picture on the menu. It's a large ice coffee with all sorts of whipped cream and sprinkles and other colorful additions.
"I'll take a large Super Summer Blast, please!" I announce with resolve.
"And may I have a name for your order?" The woman asks with a smile, and I feel my own fall off my face.
I turn to the poet, who is smirking evilly at me.
"Well, give the nice lady a name! Preferably yours."
"You knew I'd have to give a name! You tricked me!"
I jam a finger in the poet's face as they laugh at me loudly. 
I grab a napkin and scribble my name quickly before passing it to the barista. She chuckles at my antics and marks my cup with only the first letter of my name.
I smile at her and then stick my tongue out at the poet. 
I'm rewarded with a laugh from the poet and another amused smile from the barista. 
"I bought a coffee and gave her my name. So I'm officially a customer! I've kept up my end of the bargain. Now it's your turn!"
My words are greeted with another warm laugh from my nameless friend. It's a warm and genuine laugh, but I glare in response.
"Why don't we say our names at the same time? That way your ego stays intact and-"
"One large Super Summer Blast for Q," the barista manages to interrupt our bickering politely and holds out the colorful iced coffee for me.
I smile triumphantly and take the coffee.
"Thank you, miss!"
I can feel the blazing glare of the poet beside me as I accept the coffee.
"So, your name is Q?"
"That's the first letter."
My words earn another glare. I find myself smiling in response though.
"How about you guess the rest of the letters, and I'll tell you my name once you've got all of them?"
The glare somehow gets more intense at my suggestion.
"Well, have you got a better suggestion?"
The poet raises a hand to their chin in a cliche thinking pose.
"Hmmm. What if. . . you stay for poetry night!?"
"Wait. What? Why?"
"They will announce my name when I go up to perform, so it's a win-win!"
"So, I'd get your name, but what do you get out of it?"
My confused expression earns me another laugh from the poet. 
"I want the rest of your name in return, Q."
This time I laugh at the triumphant smile before me.
"You're willing to have me crash your precious poetry night just for a name?"
"You built up all this mystery around it, and it starts with a Q of all letters! I have to know now! So yes, I'm inviting you to crash my precious poetry night."
The two of us continue this light-hearted banter over names and poetry as we return to the very table where we met. 
"Aren't you supposed to be working?"
I ask as I prop my face on my hand.
A look of slight panic floods the poet's face, and before I can even laugh at the scene, I am alone in the booth.
I watch as the lady behind the counter puts the slacker back to work with a smile.
She says something that makes the poet tense up for a second; I don't catch what she said, but she waves to me after.
I give her a small wave in return and then set about drinking my coffee. 
I pass the time waiting for the clock to strike seven by making life for a certain poet a little harder or a little more fun, depending on your perspective.
Calling out things like, "you missed a spot!" Or "What does it take to get some service around here!" 
My outbursts earn me laughs from the staff and the occasional playful glare from the target of my antics.
Finally, 7 o'clock arrives. The occasion is marked by the population of my booth growing by a whopping one person.
"Took you long enough, I thought your shift would never-"
The sound of a loud, angry horn makes me snap my head toward the parking lot.
The angry beams of two square headlights glare at the café—my ride. I forgot. . . oh crap!
I grab my things and make a mad dash to the door, just as I had yesterday. 
The still nameless poet calls after me and I spare a single glance back to see confusion and disappointment mingling where a carefree smile once perched. 
"I am so, so sorry. I lost track of time and-"
"Just get in!"
I follow the order as quickly as possible and brace myself for more short, angry remarks about my being late.
As the truck grumbles away, the driver makes more noise than the old engine this time, but my mind stays focused on the nameless friend I just ran away from for the second time.
Than something sticks out in the waves of grumbling.
"If you pull this crap again, you can walk home, and I won't bother wasting the gas to come and-"
I ignore the rest of the statement, having heard the answer to my problem already. I remain quiet and keep the same dejected look on my face from earlier, but inside I smile like a mad person.

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A/N

Woohoo! We're three chapters in ladies and gents! Any guesses as to names and genders yet? Hehehe! I even gave you a hint! "Q"
Also, does anybody have any guesses as to who the woman in the cover might be? Heheheheh . .  .
Okay, I'll stop teasing now!
I can't thank you enough for reading! All like 1 or 2 readers here so far are honestly the bomb.com!
I think I've said this before but, just in case, I'm experimenting with the whole lack of names and pronouns. I think it would be great to see stories that readers of all kinds can plug themselves or a hero they relate to into. That's what the tag #readaboutyou means. So tell me what you think! Let me know what works and what doesn't so I can improve the concept for you lovely people!
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