After Hours

I wrote this my Junior year in High School. It was actually inspired by the voice of the teacher who was over the Creative Writing Club.

I’ve figured out his work schedule. I go in each time. As soon as I open the door, the smell of coffee and baked goods fills my nose. It makes my mouth water. I walk the seven steps to the counter, sometimes a few more, sometimes a few less, depending on the length of the line. It is usually seven. I always count.

I can usually plan on the line being long in the mornings, made up of men and women in business suits, their Bluetooth earpieces flashing occasionally as they talk. Sometimes, there is a teacher. I know by their badges. They seem friendly enough. A few sigh and stare upward, running through their lesson plans in their head. Some offer smiles and comment on the pain of having to move about so early in the morning. And of course, there are also the few people who don’t say a word. They cross their arms and keep to themselves, obviously in a world of their own. The people I observe in the mornings fascinate me, but early evening is when I enjoy being here the most.

In the evening, the entire place is near silent, aside from the occasional chatter, laugh and whir of the machines. There are always students, both high school and college, scattered around at different tables, earphones plugged into their heads, either scanning over a textbook or clicking away at their laptop. Every Tuesday and Thursday, there is a cross country team from a nearby school, sitting around a few pushed-together tables and talking quietly, tired smiles plastered on their faces.

It is evening now. The bell above the door rings lightly as I open it and step into the warmth of the building. My mouth waters as I inhale the scent of warm drinks and fresh cookies. I know it won’t last long, though, as I see that there is no one else in line. I take the first of about ten steps �" Ten because there is no line. Ten because I don’t have to stop until I am standing in front of him.

Ten steps. Ten long strides that seem to take far too long. As soon as my hands are on the smooth, wooden counter, I feel relieved: Relieved because it means that I haven’t convinced myself that this is completely insane. I refuse to be convinced.

“Hey there,” he smiles, “Don’t tell me your name. I know it. I know I do…” Just a few sentences and I already feel as if absolutely nothing could go wrong. It isn’t him, necessarily; it’s his voice. It makes my mouth dry. Something about the way you can hear each roll of the tongue, each time he presses it against the roof of his mouth, every time he parts his lips. It’s the calm, deep tone he uses.

I find myself grinning as he tries to guess my name and he pauses as his eyes dart over my lips, “You have a really pretty smile.”

I don’t think my mouth could get any drier. He asks if I want my usual and I nod, asking for a bottle of water, also. He smiles as he hands me the water, as if he knows something. I pay and find a table to sit at while I wait for my drink. Sipping on my water, I watch him prepare it. I watch his large hands grabbing at the things he needs, and how delicately he handles a pen as he writes on the side of my cup. I watch his lips move as he sings along to the song being played. His intent expression turns into a large grin, his eyes squinting up, as one of his coworkers laughs at his singing. I watch as he turns toward me, and then I look away as he catches me staring. I hear him chuckle, and then he calls my name. My real name. My correct name. I look up and he holds my cup out toward me.

I stand and approach the counter. He gives me the cup and the hot chocolate warms my hands. Or was it his fingertips brushing mine?

“I remembered your name.” He smiles, proud of himself. I laugh lightly and nod, taking a sip. He watches me, and his eyes observe my face, focusing on my neck as I swallow. He inhales shakily and I feel my cheeks beginning to heat up.

Why am I blushing?

He looks away awkwardly. I hesitate as I begin to walk away, and I can see him watching me. I see his hand tapping his thigh. I see him biting his lip.

I say goodbye quietly and he nods, lifting his hand to wave.

“See you tomorrow morning, right?” He smiles. I nod and turn to leave. I wonder if he will stop me: If he will call my name, or come from behind his counter to grab my arm. I wonder if I will get out to the sidewalk and he’ll come running out behind me. As I open the door, he doesn’t even look. I can see him, not moving from that spot, biting his lip and tapping his leg.

I step into the cold, tucking my bottle of water into my purse and taking another sip of hot chocolate. It burns my throat. I think about that moment inside, his eyes on my neck. I’d never considered that a personal area of my body until that moment. I can’t help but think about what would happen if he were here when I swallowed that last mouthful. When I grimaced and my eyes watered, would he notice? Would he tilt my head back, lean down and kiss the pain away?

I shake those thoughts from my head.

Walking down the sidewalk, the heel of my boots crunch against the fresh layer of snow. It continues to fall. I imagine my hair is dotted with the white flecks. I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, but I ignore it. I’m not in a talking mood. And then I hear my name.

I turn and smile, but I can already feel my stomach knotting up. It is harder to force it today than it usually is. He approaches me swiftly and wraps me in his arms far too tightly. I don’t hug back. He pulls away, kissing me, and then asks how my day was. He doesn’t care. His cell phone rings and he has it pressed to his ear before I can even begin to respond. Good. I’m still not in a talking mood.

I sigh to myself as he swings his arm around me, pulling me along with him as he talks on the phone. Not even ten paces later he stops, obviously upset with whomever he is speaking to. He takes a few steps away from me to continue his conversation. And then I hear a bell: The one above the door.  I take this opportunity to turn around.

I see him, just standing there, wringing his green apron in his hands. He stares at me, and I can see the sadness in his eyes. The disappointment. I wonder if he can see it in mine. He continues to stare, just a while longer, and then he waves. I nod, lifting my hand slightly, and he turns away.

I try not to get too upset as I am pulled to his chest again. I try not to cry as I am hauled away from the mysterious, calm-natured barista. It isn’t too difficult to control my emotions, only because I know I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll be back for more hazelnut hot chocolate, another bottle of water, and maybe even a cookie. I’ll be back for another dose of our odd, unnamed, no longer one-sided relationship.

Author's Note

Any feedback would be great!

Reviews

[Chellie]

I thought this was a lovley little story. I love how they both obviously feel something for each other, but neither of them really want to admit to the other. The emotions in this are very strong, almost tangible. It was a graet read and I very much enjoyed reading it.