Complicity [h.s]

14

Harry Styles

12:00

And she's not here.

My knee won't stop jittering in my seat, the heel of my Converse shaking off the ground in a repetitive fidget. I've chewed all my nails off, I didn't even know I was doing it until my middle finger began to bleed. It only just stopped, I've been wiping the blood on my jeans.

12:10

"Order for Ramisa?"

"Order for Malory?"

"Order for Clay?"

Cups on saucers clinking together, mumbling chatter, purging steamers, grinding espresso beans, caffeine. The civil environment is one I'm not used to—daylight shining through the windows while the baristas call out names of customers. I chose to sit in the back corner, hidden in the shadows.

12:16

I'm sweating. It can partially be from the thick clothes on my body as spring is starting to transition to warmer days. Heavy sweaters are my only form of attire now. I have to stay discrete. Sunglasses stay on my face, trying to mask my eyes. This is risky. Being at a place like this in broad daylight is risky.

12:20

It's busy in here, that will either benefit my attempt to stay invisible or brutally fuck me over. I've mapped my escape route to this place if things go south. I'm sitting at a small table right in the back of the cafe, near the bathroom which also has an emergency exit to an alleyway. I've kept my head down and refuse to wander my eyes around the café.

12:22

The bell of the entrance chimes for the thirtieth time in twenty minutes, but somehow—this one feels different. It feels heavier, it grips my chest and throat. The waves in my stomach fall still while my bouncing knee turns to cement. My heel meets the ground in silence.

Over all the chatter, espresso beans, milk steamers and clinking glasses—I hear stilettos.

Slow walking, savoury stilettos.

My throat runs dry as I gently turn my head towards the café for the first time since being here, risking the curious peek to know if my intuitions are correct. Sunglasses over my eyes, hands in my lap, a slouch in my posture—I glance.

A long black leather coat, black boot stilettos, high waisted black dress pants hugging her hips but loose at the ankles, a cropped black turtle neck, and pointed black sunglasses. The only bit of colour is the gold jewelry on her neck, wrists, and slender fingers. Long straightened hair tucked behind her ears and draped down her back, she walks in and turns to the front counter without even scanning the room for me. She places an order instead.

She's twenty minutes late, but she came.

I move my eyes back down to my lap, knowing I've been looking long enough. My throat stays dry like this is some sort of blind date to be nervous about. I'm anxious about meeting her today. Even though she's someone I've married, slept with, cried to, lied to, been naked with, kissed, held hands, and fell in love with. Meeting her today feels like I'm meeting her for the first time.

Because I simply don't know what to expect.

As I hear her expensive shoes approach my direction, I look back up at her staring directly into me from behind her pointed sunglasses. With a paper pastry bag in her hand, she takes a leisurely seat to the chair across from me.

Getting comfortable, shifting in her seat, crossing one leg over the other—she takes her time. Eventually, her sunglasses get pushed up on top of her head so they collect some of the hair out of her face. Her smoky eyes don't meet mine yet as she silently takes a croissant out of the packaging and places it on top. Her black acrylic nails narrow to a point, almost like she can rip someone's throat out with them. It wouldn't surprise me if she has.