Death Over Coffee

I can’t really tell you why I kept going back to the coffee shop.

Maybe it was the scones, with their strange-but-delicious red filling which was always

too much for the volume of the pastry, the way a child’s grin appears to be too large for their face, happiness spilling over the sides of their lips and scalding the world with joy. Or perhaps the charm of that oddly placed stack of books I love behind the counter kept me there - I always assumed that they were there for decoration, but I was too afraid to ask because I might have been right (besides, whoever picked them out had great taste, even if they were simply for mien). A third option is the beguiling barista behind the counter with his reckless grin that I always stared too long at, combined with the equally-attractive woman who never seemed to leave the place, losing herself in books that were thicker than her skull.

I’ll let you choose the reason - you only need to know that I went there quite often, and that my obsession with caffeine could have been the death of me.

Quite, quite, literally.

Before I completely freak you out with my “ominous-oh-look-at-that-foreshadowing!” talk, let me set the stage.

My name is Simon Avery Lowell, and I don’t know what exactly I’ve gotten myself into. The day began like any other at the college - my classmates moaning and groaning, shuffling in to 7:00 am philosophy. I can’t judge, I was right there with them. If I’ve learned one thing from being a freshman in college, it’s this: there’s no discernment here. You could meander into class in your pyjamas (as most of us do) holding a cup of microwavable macaroni and cheese and no one would give you a second glance. People who are racist, sexist, or bigoted in any way don’t get the attention they used to in high school. I’m not saying that people don’t agree with them here, but everyone is so tired that they don’t really care. It’s wonderful for me, being the bisexual that I am, and while I am white and male, I’ve noticed a lack of aggression towards women and people who aren’t Caucasian. Well, that’s not completely true - there’s always the idiot who says or does something sexist and/or racist, but hey - it’s better than high school.

The point is that I did not totally despise college at this given point in my life, and had decided to treat myself to the eightieth coffee that week after class.

As I stepped outside into the crisp November air, it suddenly hit me that winter was coming and that the temperature was very, very cold. Ducking back into my dorm to grab a coat, I ran back out again.

Outside, on the charming streets of my town, students were everywhere. The sun was obstructed by gray, bleak clouds, but the day still somehow managed to be beautiful. The cold was refreshing and invigorating, waking up cozy students and inviting everyone outside. A tiny, freezing breeze leapt through the town as if it were dancing, as if it were throwing the covers off of sleeping young adults and yelling at them to come outdoors, to do something, to live. The cold dropped red onto noses and cheeks like watercolor, livening up a blue picture of life with bright, breathing crimson.

I barely needed to look up from my book to know that I was in the shop. I had walked that route so many times I had it memorized, and the strong smell of coffee beans that lingered through the air brought me down from the clouds and back to earth.

“Small chocolate chip mocha, extra whipped cream.”

I didn’t so much hear the barista’s voice as it wandered its way to my ears. He was leaning nonchalantly against the counter, having just handed off an order to another worker. A group of young women stood on the other side, attempting to catch his eye and failing miserably.

I grinned to myself and pulled up my scarf to hide my red ears.

The barista, his name tag reading “Dan” in handwriting that looked a little too much like Comic Sans, smirked at me when I walked up to the counter (which didn’t exactly calm my nerves), recognizing me as a regular.

“Hey, stranger,” he smiled. “The usual, I presume?” Dan had a strange way of speaking that didn’t really sound like speaking at all, and more like someone reading out poetry, odd pauses littering his sentences in a way that (if listened to carefully enough) could even change the meaning of the words.

I composed myself quickly and grinned back. “Hi. And yes, please, how’d you know?”

His pen scratched swiftly across the paper and he read it out before handing it away. “Medium caramel frappuccino, coming right up.”

I grimaced to myself as I always do at the sound of my feminine order out loud, but hey - pizza rolls, not gender roles.

Knowing that no one was behind me and wanting to get to know Dan some more, I turned one of the books on top of the stack towards me and read out the cover, “Magpie Murders” by Anthony Horowitz. It was a new book that just came out earlier this year in 2017. I had enjoyed it, and decided that this could be a topic of conversation.

“Hey, I’ve always wondered - are these books for show?”

Dan looked at me curiously. “Of course not. They’re mine, actually. I read on breaks and keep them here so that no coffee spills on them.”

Looking down for a second time, I got a glimpse of a red bookmark sticking out from the very end of the book.

I kicked myself for being so oblivious. “Ah. Makes sense.” A heavy pause stretched between us. “My name’s Simon, by the way. And I’ve read this, actually. I really enjoyed it.”

Dan brightened up when he heard this. “Really? I love murder mysteries. They just… make sense to me, you know? I live for that moment when everything snaps into place and you wonder how you didn’t see it before. The whole concept of murder fascinates me as well. It’s the worst crime someone could possibly commit, ending another human life, and yet hundreds of people do it every year… it really makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

Intelligent and attractive, then. Well.

“I know what you mean,” I briskly replied, attempting to prove my own intelligence. “But for me it’s the writing that gets me. Coming up with one of these must be so difficult - I suppose you would have to work from the end back, but you would still need to have an insanely creative mind for that.”

He was leaning over the counter, his head resting on his neatly folded hands, and his elbows perched like a bird’s feet. His brows were furrowed and his eyes slightly squinted, clearly listening to what I was saying and, in doing so, elevated my heart rate tenfold.

“Sorry to cut you short,” Oh, he was speaking again. I needed to pay attention. “But your coffee’s ready. That’ll be three dollars, even.”

Ah, yes. I forgot about the whole “paying for food” part.

I stuck my hand in my back pocket and brought out three crumpled up green pieces of paper, saved from my paycheck (I worked at a bookstore, which paid as much as you think it did.) “Sorry…” I said guiltily, folding out the creases.

Dan chuckled softly and took the money. “Don’t worry about it,” he assured me. “People pay in quarters sometimes.”

My eyebrows went up and I snickered a bit as well. “Really? Who?”

“Mostly gamers. You know, the ones who go to the arcade every other day and seem to forget that quarters are not the only currency in the U.S.. Still, money is money.”

I nodded and grabbed my coffee. I had spotted an open seat by the window earlier, and decided to settle there.

People watching is an interesting past time to have. On one hand, you get a glimpse into the lives of complete strangers and, for a moment, they don’t stay strangers. They become unique and complicated people, with families and friends and backstories. Realizing that there are seven billion other people just as deep as you is a strange thought, but it’s also somehow reassuring. It makes you feel more understood, not alone in your struggles.

On the other hand, you sometimes see things you wish you hadn’t.

For example, there are such gems as: the grown man who I caught picking his nose and proceeded to make extremely awkward eye contact with before I looked away. Or the woman who began to cry across the street and tried to hide her tears, but I saw, and it became very evident that we both knew we had seen each other. Included in this list is the child who had deliberately pushed his sister into the road (the sister was saved by her parents before anything drastic could happen, of course, but it was still an unnerving realization that the child would one day have access to a weapon.)

Still, I partake in my habit, mostly out of boredom.

Boredom would not be an issue very, very shortly.