Good Morning Lilah

1.

Good Morning Lilah

By: Sophie Anna

1.

I'm sitting in my favorite green armchair, way in the back corner of a coffee shop that I claimed during the second week of my freshman year. An unopened textbook and my laptop lie on the table before me. On the other side of the table—sitting in an identical green armchair—is Raj. Raj isn't my friend. We're study buddies, I guess you could say. I'm pretty sure he goes to my school, but he could also go to the tech school a few miles away (the coffee shop is the middle, which means that it attracts WASPy elitist assholes like me and also nerdy elitist geniuses like Raj). Regardless of which esteemed institution Raj belongs to, we've developed the same habit of coming here every Sunday morning. Sometimes we'll exchange pleasantries or comment on the state of global affairs, but more often than not, Raj and I will just mutually bask in the quiet tranquility of the coffee shop. Sometimes I pretend to do work; sometimes Raj buys stock in the Serbian black market. Sundays are our day of rest.

But this Sunday. This Sunday, as I sit in my green armchair with Raj opposite me, sitting in his green armchair, my entire morning of methodical laziness is interrupted by a gust of wind and a ponytail of jet-black curls.

Normally, I don't take notice of other patrons. Or if I do, then I don't bother observing them for more than a few seconds. Everyone who comes in here is equally as interesting and brilliant or entitled as Raj and I, so in that sense, we're all the same. But this girl is different.

She walks into the coffee shop and goes straight up to the counter. "Do you have Turkish coffee?" she wonders.

The barista stares at her for a moment like she's from Aleppo and then tells her that he'll be back in a sec—he has to ask his manager. So the barista leaves the girl, standing by the register, waiting and wondering if they'll have her Turkish coffee. She doesn't pull out her phone to busy her hands, nor does she study the chalkboard menu behind the counter to come up with a backup plan. Instead, she looks around, her eyes slowing soaking in every bit of this quaint little shop. Every bit, including my corner with Raj and our green armchairs.

Since I'm already looking at her, when her eyes land on me, there is no way out of making direct eye contact. She holds the shared stare, but just for a moment, because then the barista emerges with the manager right on his tail.

"Turkish coffee?" says the manager.

"Yes," says the girl.

"You have no idea how happy the owner is going to be when I tell him about this," the manager either says to the girl or to the barista. He then begins to personally craft what I can only assume is Turkish coffee. As the manager works, the girl's eyes wander. They wander all the way back over to me, in my green armchair.

"Hey Raj," I say, not breaking eye contact with the girl.

"Yes?" replies Raj.

"Do you see that girl over there?"

"The one who is staring at you?"

"Yeah, her."

"Yes, I see her."

"She took my virginity."

"She what?"

"She was the first girl I ever f*cked, Raj."

"Was she?"

"Yeah."

"Interesting."

"Quite."

"What is she doing here?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen her in over two years."

"Oh?"

"I think she took a gap year."

"It is common these days."

"I wonder where she goes now."

"You could ask her. She is right over there."

"I could."

I'm still staring at the girl and she's still staring at me. But then the manager cockblocks our stare by bringing over her artisanally crafted Turkish coffee. He raves about the richness. The girl takes a small sip and hands over cash.

"Are you hiring, by chance?" she asks.

The manager lights up. "Let me give you my card."

The girl thanks him as he whips out his card and hands it to her. She accepts the small piece of paper and takes another sip of her Turkish coffee. Then she looks back over to me (because of course I'm still looking at her) and nods, the edges of her mouth tilting up. I can't smile back. I just can't. And I don't have the chance to, either, because after that, she's gone.

"She left," comments Raj.

"She'll be back," I sigh.

"What is she called?"

"Lilah," I say. "Lilah Tov."

A/N: New story. Continuation/sequel-ish of my other story Lilah Tov. I know the description is bad - I'm working on it. Hope y'all like it. Let me know what ya think, and be sure to comment/vote/all that jazz. Xoxo -Sophie