Of Mochas and Macchiatos

one. chalk bodies

Contrary to popular belief, not everybody considers the fog that always descends upon Astoria at this time of year a funeral shawl, no matter how menacing it can seem. The heavy mist that clings to the ivy-covered houses and settles upon the sky-grazing pine trees like a deathly cloak has always seemed magical to me- even though all of the townspeople hushedly whisper that it is a bad omen, a symbol of death that wraps its curling tendrils around the town and shrouds everything in an air of malevolence. I guess I do understand why most people would think it spectral, and sometimes I agree that there is something supernatural and wicked about the strangely dense fog, but in the pale light of morning, all I can think about is how mystical it is.

The heavy scent of pinecones and woodsmoke weaves through the fog to cut the cold air, entangling itself within the thin wisps of steam that curl out of my coffee cup, creating an exquisite autumnal perfume. My boots, high but not so high that they graze the hem of my plaid skirt, are laced up tight against the cold, and clatter quietly along the ground, crunching through the light canopy of dead leaves that line the pavement. My navy blue satchel stuffed with notebooks and pens swings gently in tandem to my footsteps and gently bumps against my hipbone though my cream-coloured sweater as I scuttle to the zebra crossing that lies before the library.

Although it is still quite early in the morning, I have recently become paranoid that somebody will attempt to steal the seat at the head of the antique oaken table that lies directly beneath a beautiful skylight window. My seat. For the last few months, it has been my favourite spot to study at, even during the colder days when the weather is so unpredictable. I adore the way that the sunlight drifts across the sky sending golden streams of crepuscular rays down through the window to fall upon the gentle waves of my dark hair, or the way that the rain hammers against the panes of glass like a rather bookish intruder desperate to enter the library. And even when I've been studying for so long that the moon has taken the sun's spot in the sky and a librarian has switched on all of the old-fashioned bankers' lamps, I love to gaze up through the skylight at the canopy of stars and think about nothing at all.

Lately though, my table has been frequented by a particular dark headed boy from my history class. Rafe Archer.

He never says a word to me and yet when I discreetly stare across at him beneath my eyelashes in an attempt to be inconspicuous, I swear that a smirk tugs at his lips. His eyebrows raise in that self-assured, smug way of his and he runs his hands through his gorgeously perfect hair, but he never even acknowledges my presence. I've noticed that in these past few days he has, so very like the clouds I watch through the window, lazily drifted across the table, closer to my little patch of skylight.

And that is why I dash across the zebra crossing clutching my hot coffee in one hand and a white paper bag -containing a pastry- in another. Fortuitously -and quite uncharacteristically for me- I manage not to spill any of my drink or drop my almond croissant. Perhaps today will be a good day for me, even with the looming threat of disaster that the dense fog seems to insinuate.

In accordance with Murphy's Law, I am wrong.

It's barely 7:30 am and my spot has already been taken, stolen, ensnared by the enemy. Behold Raphael Archer. Actually, I don't even know if that is his real name. Anytime anybody deviates from Rafe with a "Hey Raphael!" or a "Raffy, my man!" they are met with a smouldering glare and the assertion that "It's just Rafe". Of course, I am not one to willingly submit to the menacing growl of the resident rich boy -okay, well, one of the resident rich kids... there are a lot around here. In actuality, we have never even spoken before. But today, that will change.

"Rich Boy Archer," I drawl, pasting on an expression of sheer boredom, "You are in my spot".

Rafe's dark eyes lazily and unabashedly trail up my body before he meets my eyes. An intense sense of opia washes over me as his eyes meet mine and I have to force myself to hold his stare. The intensity of his gaze seems to cut straight through to my soul and all I can think about is that clean sharp slice that a pair of scissors makes as it tears through a useless scrap of paper. As I am just as I am about to turn away, his eyes flicker away from my own and onto the Starbucks cup in my hand. Rafe squints at it for just a moment and a slight crease appears between his brow as he attempts to discern the barista's tangled scrawl.