Love Is Symphony |✓

| 14 |

What happened the next day was one of the most unforgettable experiences of my life.

The day started out weary. The sun was up, but wasn't high enough to radiate warmth as gray storm clouds obscured its golden rays from touching the surface of the usual bright and cheery, Los Angeles.

The weather didn't only dampen the usual glow of the mornings, but also the mood and arrival of the few customers who still seemed to crave a cup of tea.

The worst of the day was when noon striked. For the first time in three years that I've worked in Infusion, there wasn't a time that the place was bare of customers who lingered for an ice-cold glass of tea or a kettle during lunchtime - except today.

Not even a single person pushed open the glass doors to check the menu and leave when they realized that we didn't offer lattés and frappés.

"We barely even scraped a hundred dollars today," Imogen said. Disappointment etched on her face as she re-applied a fresh coat of cherry-red lipstick on her lips, compact mirror in hand and lipstick tube in the other.

"It's just six in the evening. I'm sure people will drop by to get a cup or something," I tried to inject at tone of positivity in my words, despite sounding a little reluctant in my own ears.

Imogen rolled her eyes and clamped her fingers over the compact mirror that shut with a click. "We both know that we should've earned more than a hundred by now. We only have four more hours tops before the closing time and we only had three customers."

I silently answered her with a look of reprouch, which she defensively muttered a loud, "What? You know it's true."

"It's just a typical bad day in business," I said. "What else can go wrong?"

-

Of course everything had to go wrong.

I wanted to curse my life for choosing to be extremely cliché at this very moment. Just like in every movie and New York Time's best selling novel, things had to go down the drain after I said the ever-popular line that coerced everything in this world to go wrong.

And that proved itself when you came back to Infusion and ordered a slice of dark chocolate cake and a glass of wintermelon milk tea.

How fascinating.

I couldn't deny the hard pound of my heart in my chest when I caught a glimpse of you, entering the café. You were wearing a Beatles' band white shirt, ripped jean shorts that stopped around at your knees, exposing the length of your calves that were beat with muscles, leading to a pair of black sneakers.

You looked younger than your age at that time, and I could say that the piercing at your lower lip worked so well with the look you were going for. It made me swoon, honestly. But I quickly escaped from it as soon as I could.

You already had a girlfriend.

And she wasn't me.

End of story.

A sudden gasp of surprise hit me when I felt a light tap on my shoulder. Turning around, I shot a glare at Kristoff who was smiling down at me, a mop handle in his hand that he later propped against a doorframe.

"What?" I hissed, taking a swift look in your direction to make sure that you weren't hearing anything.

Kristoff raised a brow, amusement dancing in his eyes. "You're not gonna go and talk to him?"

His words sent a churning feeling to my stomach and it felt like my heart came into a halt before beating tremendously all over again. "What's there to talk about?"

He rolled his chestnut eyes that were now framed with brown-rimmed eye glasses that just recently adorned his face. "What's there not to talk about?"

I turned my back on him. "Kristoff, I told you and Imogen what I feel and what happened so that I could pour my feelings out - not to have you breathing down on my neck everytime you get the chance to."

"This is not me breathing down on your neck, Ser," he said, clearly offended, "this is me being a friend."

He gave my shoulder a tight squeeze before grabbing the mop that was leaning against the doorframe and walking away.

-

"Hey, Ser." I lifted my head at the sound of Imogen's voice. Her hip was resting against the stainless stove and a bright orange dishcloth was draped over her shoulder.

I paused from scrubbing the sink. "Yeah?"

"Hottie there wants to talk to you."

My lips pressed into a thin line and my face instantly turned sour at the thought of talking to you. "Why?"

She shrugged, but the look of empathy in her eyes said otherwise. Sighing, I rinsed my hands and wiped it on my apron.

Just as I was about to turn at the corner of the kitchen that lead to the café, Imogen placed a cautious hand on my shoulder. "Just remember that I'm here for you, okay?"

I faught the lump that threatened to fill my throat and nodded. "Okay."

What I first saw when I emerged out of the confines of the café's kitchen was your broad and muscular back faced to me, and I let my breath hitch for a second before putting on a brave façade.

Steady. Slowly - almost there.

"You wanted to talk to me?" I wanted to pat myself on the back for sounding so distant and indifferent as opposed to the raging orchestra in my heart, the strings tightening around the traitorous muscle as it continued to drum against my chest, beating to the tune of my emotions as your bright eyes meet mine.

Taken aback by my sharp tone, you straightened in your seat, fingers momentarily curling tight onto the glass that you held. "I was just wondering if you've got something to do after your shift?"

"I'm busy."

"Um, so... can I order a slice of cake for you by theb?"

"My shift ends three hours from now." I shifted my eyes to stare at the chair next to you, afraid that the longer I stare into your eyes, the more my walls would crumble, pooling at my feet in ashes.

"I can wait," you said, sounding somewhat hopeful.

The burning urge to scoff was thick, but I refrained myself from doing so. "You can't hog that table that long. Other customers might need it."

You shifted in your seat and swept ypur eyes over the bare café. "I don't see anyone needing it at the moment, or in the next three hours. Do you?"

My lips pressed in a thin line. "Suit yourself, then," I said, then walked away, headed straight into the safety confines of the kitchen where an unifinshed task of scrubbing the sink awaited.