Of Mochas and Macchiatos

Part 4

It's 9:30am and apart from the café staff, I am one of five people in the café. I'm sitting in one of the comfy booth spots by the window, allowing the early morning sun to drift through and fall onto the light smattering of winter-faded freckles that dust the bridge of my nose. Before me lies a newspaper. The café, Tilbury's, always purchases actual paper newspapers and although I sometimes find it quiet cumbersome to wrestle with the large perpetually crinkled pages, I do like to read The Astoria Times before I go to school.

Also, I'm kind of a data stinge.

So I'm a little bit reluctant to use my own mobile data to access the news unless it's, like, an actual emergency.

I've been here for maybe fifteen minutes and I am yet to order anything. The waitress hovers near my table, pen and notepad in hand, unsure of whether or not I am eating alone but I wave away her advances with a contrived smile. I got here fifteen minutes ago because I wanted this table, this window seat. I wanted to be in control. I wanted everything to be perfect.

Why, oh why, did I think this was a good idea? Honestly, the rational part of me tells me that I'm overreacting. Staring at the ornate grandfather clock against the olive-toned wall, I can see that it is only 27 seconds past 9:30. If he walks in the door right now, Rafe will only be 32 seconds late. But another part of me screams that he will not show up but rather show me up. Ghost me. Of course that would happen to me. I mean, seriously, what would Rich Boy Archer want with me anyway? It's way more probable that he'd like a Kiki-esque girl. Effortlessly cool, clever, beautiful and witty. I start to unravel this thought. Maybe the reason he even acted like he wanted to meet me is because I acted so much like Kiki that I became her, in a way. This thought makes me sad. Will anybody ever love me for who I am?

Woah. That tangent got deep real fast. I shake my head, clearing away such notions. It's too early. I'm not about to get all depresso when I haven't even had my first espresso yet and it is this terrible little pun that stirs me from my dark thoughts. Noah tells me that I have a habit of inadvertently letting my motions play out on my face and as a waitress bustles past me once again, I attempt to erase any signs of mirth that may have crept into my face as a result of that little joke. Whatever. I should leave now anyway. I look weird enough sitting here by myself, let alone laughing at some odd inward joke.

I'm literally about to go over to the counter to just get a takeaway spiced soy chai latte and leave when the small bell over the door tinkles quietly, signalling the arrival of a new customer. Rafe. I surreptitiously glance at the clock. Ha. Of course. It's actually 58 seconds past 9:30. Then I look back at Rafe. Okay, if I was a whistling kinda flirty girl, I'd whistle (but my façade doesn't go that far). He looks like he just stepped out of an Abercrombie ad. Or inadvertently strolled off the Armani runway. He's wearing a dark jacket (probably from Savile Row) that he takes off and drapes lazily across his shoulder, revealing a navy blue cable knit sweater. It's nearly the same colour as my darkly coloured hooded cape that lies beside me on the booth seat.

How quaint. We're matching.

"Good morning", he says, and he stares at my glasses. I was so tired this morning that I felt as if my contact lenses would just fall out, so I kicked the morning ritual of poking about my eyeballs and just put on my glasses instead.

Another night, another nightmare.

The only time I ever dream is when I am awake.

I don't think Rafe's ever seen me in them before. MadeLucky most certainly have. They like to comment on how intellectual (cough, "nerdy") I look with them on. I mutter an awkward reply before remembering that I have a reputation that I need to uphold.