Her brows crease a little and her head delicately tilts slightly to one side, but her smile doesn’t fade. “So are you pretty good at this? Guessing people’s orders I mean?”
I can’t help this feeling. I want to be closer to this woman standing four feet from me on the other side of the counter. So I lean forward, lace my fingers together, and rest my elbows on the counter. Mission accomplished: I’m another foot closer. She has a faint dusting of freckles on her nose. They’re beautiful, too. “Usually.” Which is a lie. I’ve never done this.
She scratches her head like she’s thinking over what I’ve said. When she pulls her hand away from her hair, it’s even messier than before. That’s not a bad thing. At all. She challenges me. “So I’m a caramel whatcha-ma-call-it kind of girl? Damn, I don’t know how to take that.”
I keep my elbows and hands resting on the counter. I’d worry I just offended her if her smile wasn’t back in place. But she seems feisty. “That’s my best guess.”
“Wow,” she replies. “To tell you truth, I feel a little slighted by your presumptuous assessment, but I’m gonna let it slide. I always thought I wore my passion for coffee on my sleeve, kind of like a badge of honor. Large cup of coffee, house blend … black, please.”
Black? She can’t mean it, no one ever does. They mean black until you put everything else in it. I narrow my eyes. “Flavor shot?”
Her eyebrows lift. “Nope.”
I press on. “Creamer? Milk? Soy?”
She shakes her head. “No thanks.”
“Sugar?”
“Nah, I’m sweet enough already.”
Out of anyone else’s mouth that would’ve sounded cheesy and over-the-top flirtatious, but she says it so matter-of-factly I don’t think she’s even trying to be suggestive. Damn, she’s got me falling all over myself here. I laugh and shake my head. “I bet you are.” I pour the coffee, then offer her the warm cup. I almost jump out of my skin when she takes it and her finger slides over mine. It was clearly unintentional on her part, but I have to suppress a vocal reaction. I clear my throat again and attempt to sound normal. “Guess I had you pegged wrong. Welcome to the club.”
As she hands me two dollar bills, she winks. “I get that a lot.”
She winked at me. I’m grateful at this moment that I’m standing concealed from the waist down behind this counter, because I’m way too close to embarrassing myself on such a middle school level. I drop the change in her tiny open palm, because I can’t risk physical contact again.
She immediately drops it in the tip jar and hoists her coffee in the air. “Thanks. Have a stupendous Tuesday.”
Who says stupendous? She does. It may be my new favorite word. “Stupendous,” I repeat. I can’t stop smiling at her. It’s like she’s turned on this switch inside me. “You do the same.” I offer a lazy salute. It’s a habit I’ve picked up from working with Romero so long.
I glance at the clock. It’s only 6:55am, and this has already been a stupendous day.
What in the hell just happened? I feel like I’ve been asleep for years and I’ve only just woken up.
Wednesday, August 31
(Kate)
I’ve been in Clayton and Pete’s room for the past two hours. We all talked the first hour and then Clayton suggested, “Let’s play Fatally harm, Screw, Civil Union.”
I look at Pete to see if he has any clue what Clayton’s talking about but he looks as confused as I am and then it hits me. “Dude, I am not playing Kill, Fuck, Marry.”
Clayton looks astonished I’d deny him. “It sounds so obnoxious when you say it like that. Why not?”
I roll my eyes. “I haven’t played that since I was like fifteen.”
Pete’s still confused. “What’s Kill, Fu—” He can’t even say the word. He’s definitely never played this game.
Now I’m smiling because Pete’s innocence is too damn adorable. “Clayton,” I shift my gaze to meet his eager eyes, “John our dorm RA, Hector the dude who works in the cafeteria, and Sugar my roommate.”
His smile fades. “For God’s sake, Katherine, those options are horrific.”
I smile and taunt, “You’re the one who wanted to play. And Hector’s not horrific. He’s super nice.”
“How do you even know he’s nice?”
“I talk to him every night when I drop my dirty dishes off in the cafeteria washroom.”
“What you two do isn’t talking. It’s a sad combination of Spanglish and charades.”
“He’s teaching me Spanish. I’m teaching him English,” I defend.
He smirks. “What has he taught you?”
I laugh because I know I’m caught. Hector’s English is extremely limited and what we do is closer to charades than a verbal conversation, but we give it our best effort. I puff up my chest. “I know ‘Mi nombre es Kate’ and ‘Como estas’ and ‘gato.’ And ‘Ami no me gustan las zanahorias,’ which means carrots taste like shit.”
Pete looks skeptical. “He taught you how to say, ‘Carrots taste like … crap’?’”
I wave my hand dismissively. “It probably means ‘I don’t like carrots,’ but I prefer ‘Carrots taste like shit.’ Because they do.” I eyeball Clayton, who’s now squirming. “Back to the game Clay: John, mi amigo Hector, and Sugar. Break it down.”