Encounter Pt. 1
I wake up behind schedule. Launching into an intense array of expletives, I haphazardly pick up my cleanest outfit and toss it over my body. I then brush my teeth and roughly slap some foundation on my face. Not bothering with my hair, I merely dampen it with water, to smooth down any frizz. I manage to sneak a glance of myself in the mirror before I walk out.
I have put on a white button-down shirt, tied in the front, with black high-waisted dress pants. For shoes, I wear my black heels, with gold embroidered on the side. Grunting, I stick two gold hoop earrings in my ear and smear some lipgloss on my mouth. Luckily, my coiled hair seems to be relatively tame and ends just above my shoulders. My bangs could use some work, but overall, manage to highlight the curvature of my face adequately.
Ten minutes later, I arrive at Le Cafe Du Chocolat (my favorite place to work). Normally, I would casually walk into the place with ease and decorum, but today, I bust through the glass doors, speeding towards the front register. Unfortunately, in addition to being late, I have also neglected this week’s past work for my temp job at a sales and marketing firm. Though I am only officially a temp, I still receive just as much work as my co-workers, except my pay is less as I am not qualified as “full-time”. More often than not, I end up getting the long, tedious tasks that no one else wants to complete like filing paperwork, researching analytical stats, and coming up with pitch ideas that, upon completion, someone will probably claim as their own.
Anyways, while I am in the midst of contemplating ideas of how to market expensive, high-quality products to those of lower-income communities, a familiar voice calls my name. I smile and walk over to the counter, and the ruggedly handsome boy standing behind it. Jeb, one of the baristas at Le Cafe du Chocolat. He started last year, and embarrassingly enough, I had a crush on him. However, I stopped bothering with flirting when I realized that he would never admit he had feelings, let alone ask me out. This may sound cruel but I do not want someone who cannot admit that they want something. I want a man that can tell me what he wants and own it. And so, I simply place my order, murmuring a quant hello and goodbye. I then head over to my favorite booth, the one near the side of the cafe, sheltered from all of the noise and lights of the front. Soon enough, Jeb brings my coffee. I set to work.
Twenty minutes later, I am disrupted by a shadow-like movement in my peripheral vision. Assuming it is Jeb and not bothering to look up, I impatiently gesture toward my empty coffee cup and discarded napkins. The large form doesn’t move, let alone speak. I look up alarmed. I can’t say the stranger puts me at ease.
Standing, at five foot seven in a crisp black suit stands a man, a very pissed man. His raven hair is slicked back, highlighting the clean-shaven, angular face and well-defined nose. His skin is smooth and light-complexioned, save for darker spots indicating time well spent in the sun. Near his chin, lies a very plump, pink mouth. I find my gaze lingering there for several seconds. The man could very well be considered attractive except for the fact that his full lips are fixed in a scowl and his cold, dark eyes are fixated directly on me. I automatically shrink back, cowering from his gaze.
However, gaining my composure, I look back up at him. His scowl has lightened into a smirk. Arrogant, prick. Forgetting my shyness and angered by his smug demeanor I defiantly lift my chin and attempt to mirror his previous expression. He continues to stare me down. I stare back. His lips turn back down and I notice the subtle clench of his jaw. I inwardly clap myself on the back. However, my pride fades when my gaze returns to his eyes. They visibly darken, and I cannot help but look down, overwhelmed. Deflated, I look everywhere but at him. I feel his gaze pierce into my skin. Squirmish, I ask with venom in my voice, “What do you want?” He says nothing, merely sliding into the seat across from me. He picks up the menu I discarded on the table and looks at it intently. We sit in silence for a few minutes before he says “This is my booth.” Stunned and taken aback, I say nothing. He can’t be serious, can he? I mean people can’t just own booths. He’s probably just trying to be funny. But then again this guy doesn’t seem like one to play jokes. He’s more like the one that ends them.
I was right.
