When Droplets Collide

Four

Watching the seconds inch their way into another minute, I remind myself that I’m not doing anything wrong. I remind myself that I have every right to sit in this seat, at this venue, during this time, to meet the world's busiest man.

That I’m not betraying anyone by being here.

Before I first sunk into this chair, keeping track of the time was a source of comfort for me. Now, instead of keeping my pulse at its usual disinterested rate, paying attention to the time has peaked its interest so much so that I can't help but break out into a cold sweat.

My index finger taps out the same nervous ticking pattern of the metallic hands in my watch. The skin between my teeth protests loudly as I wait for him to make his presence known.

“Can I get you anything else?”

My finger stills it’s rapid beat against the table as I look up into the unknowing eyes of the young woman in the standard olive green apron. I frown in confusion at the lack of a name tag just as her dark eyebrow ascends towards her hairline at the empty seat across from me.
“Did your date give you the slip or something?”

I almost laugh—almost. It would be so much easier if my “date” did ditch me—if I wasn’t called here in the first place.
My frown can't help but deepen at the wording of her question. I release my aching lower lip with to ask, “What does it matter to you?”

Her dark eyes give me a deadpan look. “You're in my section. It's only natural that I pay attention to when the customers sitting at one of my tables for over an hour only order a cup of watered down coffee.”
“Is that your subtle way of telling me to order more things on the menu or else you'll kick me out?” I ask, a flicker of hope weaving it’s way under my skin.
“I would never do that,” she informs me, her darkly lined eyes meeting mine, “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience your date.”

“I’m not here on a date.”

The words come out before I can stop them, but the amused raise of her eyebrow takes away some of my regret of it.

“Then instead of kicking you out of my section,” she says, “I'd tell you to move to sit at one of the tables in Jenny’s section.”

My eyes swiftly blink up at her bored and slightly fed up expression as I try comprehend her reply. I can't place whether she misinterpreted my tone or acknowledged it and just chose to reply with a sarcastic response so emotionless it rivals mine.

I straighten out in my chair and eye her warily. I cross my arms, slightly amused when her eyes followed the movement for a split second before her dark eyes travel back up as I wonder aloud, “Is she the waitress that steals your tips?”

The slight curve at the corner of her lips disappears before it could give me any indication as to what she looked like with a fully formed smile. She stiffens slightly as an unpleasant thought crossed her mind. Her eyes stray from mine, landing on a spot just above my shoulder as she gives her reply.

“No, She’s too new for that. She’s the waitress that’s been roped into this job because she's best friends with my sister.”

My brows furrow at the tone she uses. It's a normal enough response, but the something in the unidentifiable undertone she used causes the anxiety I felt a minute ago to return.
“Is your sister the owner or something?”

Again, a look I cannot decipher flashes across her eyes. It's gone before I have the chance to interpret it. Looking at me with feigned boredom, her reply comes in a clipped tone.

“She might as well be.”

The bulge in my arm flexes involuntarily, bringing her dazed eyes back into focus. Instead of making eye contact with any part of me, she casts her withdrawn expression back to the vacant seat across from me. I take the opportunity to fully take in her unique appearance.

While most workers here wear a standard white or khaki gold shirt under their aprons, she dons a thin black hooded top. The stitching where the sleeves of a normal hoodie would usual go are jagged and sticking out at odd ends—almost as if a pair of scissors sliced right through them.
Her lengthy hair is dead straight, and the colour so dark that it completely contrasts her natural skin tone. I idly wonder whether she picked the colour blindfolded when she went to the hairdresser for the obvious dye job.

A sweet chime from the front of the store grabs my attention away from the server. The girl’s head turns towards the sound in an eerie synchronisation with mine.

When my eyes latch onto the café's latest arrival, my spine instinctively straightens in my seat. His attention is solely focused on the device pressed up against his ear so he hasn’t caught sight of me yet. The door slams shut of its own accord, effectively trapping me in the same space as him.

“If that business looking man isn’t the person that came to see you, I'm seriously going to kick you out of my section.”

Her voice grabs his attention, and for the first time today I find myself resenting the sound of her voice—the almost melodic way she utters every syllable. His eyes flicker from her standing over the round table down to me. He says a few clipped words into the phone against his ear before making his way towards us at the back end of the cosy café.

Beside me, the young waitress lets out a tired sigh through her nostrils. She reaches a plastered hand into the front pocket of her apron and fishes out a small writing pad and pen. By the time he places a hand on the back of the chair opposite me, she'd plastered on the most forced welcoming smile I've ever seen.

“Welcome to HuggaMug Café,” she says with equally forced optimism. “I will be your server today. Please let me know if there's anything you would like to order.”

I narrow my eyes at how she conveniently leaves her name, but the man across from me doesn’t comment on it—probably for the simple reason that he just doesn’t care. He came here to siphon information from me, after all—not spend his time learning the names of waitresses that are beneath him.

The girl is equally unaffected. Her pen is already poised above the blank sheet as she awaits further instructions. At the lack of a response from either one of us, her eyes raise. Her eyes widen slightly as she finally acknowledges the palpable tension that envelops us.
I glance away from her to find him already glaring at me. My hands curl into fists under the table. If anyone has the right to be angry right now, to be upset, it’s me.