Two Bittersweet Lattes and a Macaron

Chapter 1: Déjà Vu

Chapter 1: Déjà Vu

déjà vu noun

a feeling that one has seen or heard something before

THE SOUND OF RAINDROPS pattering against the cafe's windows melds in with the soft lofi hiphop music playing in the background. Outside, the usual orange-red Californian sunset is enveloped by the dense blanket of storm clouds above. The streets are abandoned, with not a single pedestrian or vehicle in sight. One of the street lights flicker every two minutes. It's Sunday night; almost everyone has retired home, hoping to avoid the feeling the agony of rising on a Monday morning. Inside the shop are two to three small groups of customers because it's near closing hours at The Lighthouse, one of the most well-known coffeehouses in San Francisco.

The Lighthouse is famous for its lattes; the baristas are skilled with the ability to use cream and transform it into intricate pieces of art, or coffee art. With a busy atmosphere during the day, tourists and citizens alike enjoy going there. Whether it's to meet up and chat with a family friend, or to quickly purchase a coffee for it's caffeine before work, The Lighthouse provides the best taste for any event.. It's one of those "Instagrammable" cafés, with minimalist furniture and intricate murals along its milk toned walls.

After a year since I graduated with a degree in Creative Writing at one of the most prestigious universities in the nation, I spend a good part of my day hanging around at The Lighthouse, working at the counter and typing up my next novel. I'd already released my debut novel -a psychological thriller- last year at the age of 22. I lucked out- it had been nominated a small award. It wasn't much, but to have an award for my first novel exceeded my expectations.

Although I'd worked day and night, pulling all-nighters and setting a record with my daily screen time on my laptop, I hadn't expected it to go this far in the literature industry. Impressed with my novel, one of the "big five" publisher companies had published my work. Motivated and satisfied, I'd continued on to start my next piece, a collection of poems, with my best friend Nova Johansson, who worked as an editor.

Today is just like any other day, typing up my next novel in the mornings and working a little at The Lighthouse in the evenings. To be honest, I don't really need to work there, as the income from my novel is more than enough living in the city of San Francisco. The reason why I do is because The Lighthouse is my favorite place to gain new ideas and brainstorm. I'd been visiting SF for two weeks with a couple of my university friends over the summer an year ago when I first visited The Lighthouse. Typing up a report, a random idea had sparked in my head and I'd expanded on it, later becoming the base of my debut novel.

The owner of The Lighthouse loves my writing as well; she asked me if I could write poems she could use when she hired an artist to paint murals along the walls. She gave me free drinks and always let me be the first person to taste the new menus; I owed her so it was a win-win situation for both of us. The mural was finished a week after I'd submitted my poems to her; and that had been one of the main reasons why the coffeehouse had gone viral.

It's a quarter to ten at night, and I stand as a cashier, tapping my fingers on the counter. I've been here in the same place for an hour, and not one new customer has arrived. All of the coffeehouse people except for me and two others had left, their shifts over. Those two are at the back of the coffeehouse, cleaning up and checking on the stock of ingredients we have. Alone at the front, I sway my head left and right to the beat of the music as my eyelids start to shut from exhaustion.

As I begin to doze off, sure that no one else is going to come, I hear a small sigh.

"Hi, can I get one strawberry smoothie, large size, with extra whipped cream?" drones an annoyed voice. It's deep, but not arrogant. I jump up at the sudden sound. At the speed of light, I stand up straight from my rather slumped position), put an awkward smile on my face, and type the order into the cash register. Embarrassed, I don't look up.

The voice sounds oddly familiar, like déjà vu. I know I've heard it before, but I can't recall where. Frustrated, I step on my left boot using my right behind the counter. That's when a sudden thought flashes through my mind, sending a chill up my spine. A thought that has no chance of happening in real life.

"No, it can't be," I contemplate in my head. "There's no way it's him unless I'm in a fictional dimension-"

The customer hands his card to me. His slightly hand with long fingers reminds me a lot of the hand of someone I once knew. As I return the card back to him after completing the payment process, I finally glance up. My half-asleep ebony eyes widen in shock, as I gape at the person standing in front of me. My jaw drops.

The young man is wearing a black wool topcoat with a matching black knit turtleneck underneath. He holds a folded, clear umbrella, dripping wet with raindrops. He has broad shoulders and a height a good six or seven inches over mine. Although he has a newspaper boy's hat covering his face, I can see his wavy raven-black bangs and space gray eyes. They're puppy-like eyes, but they look cold-hearted due to his current expression. With sharp features, he can easily be mistaken as a famous actor.

"No, no, no, it can't be." I think once more.

Struggling to find my voice, I finally stutter, "Your name for the order, please?"

"Luca." he replies promptly. He starts to walk over to the table near the window.

I stand there on the spot, my head frozen over. I blankly stare off into space for a few seconds. Then, I rub my eyes and blink twice.

"It's not-it's not possible-" I whisper to myself as I turn around to start making the strawberry smoothie. My voice isn't stable from the sudden tears running down my cheeks.

"I must be hallucinating! There's no way, no way he'd be here-" I think. My head begins to ache, a sudden rush of feelings surging in. I don't know what to feel; there are too many different thoughts swarming around that I can't control myself.

What had made my brain freeze over isn't because of his striking good looks or his name, but the fact that he looks exactly like my dead first love.

I peek back at the young man now sitting at the table next to the window while pretending to do my job.

"No way."

Luca Young is back.