Good Girls Don't Pay for Coffee

Roasted beans and cheaply pressed suits creep into your nostrils, inflating your lungs with the memories of wasted potential.

The most delightful child, the politest teen, the brightest student: Mother would fill the ears of anyone in range. She'd sip her coffee and decree you'd never turn into an office monkey like her.

You let the air carry her disappointment out of your lungs.

She wasn't there. She couldn't understand.

The cafeteria by the metro doesn't have the best coffee, nor the cheapest, but it's right along the way, so you compromised. You anchor your shaking hands to the sleek marble counter. Your fingers trace its veins, caressing the distance separating you from the caffeine your brain is hankering for.

Just a minute.

You let your eyes drift through the sea of people. Their chatter envelops you like the warm waves of the summer tide. A seagull, made of clinking ceramics, squawks in the distance. A passing ship salutes through the roar of the foaming machine.

Your native waters call for you, and you strain your eyes not to let them lull you into sleep.

Come on...

You don't dare to take another step in your power shoes. Not before caffeine did its thing. Pins and needles flow under your foot's arch as you keep shifting the weight back and forth. Mom would say that the trick is in the weight distribution: right in the middle, while leaning into your shins.

Middle and front? How can it be both?

You never asked. You never thought you'd wear them. But now you have to. You must elevate your tiny frame to get some respect around the office. The pain is worth it. The pain is your friend.

The pain is only there when you are still.

Oh, please, be done and let me go.

You look around for a distraction. Something, anything.

Isn't that Jason What's-his-face... from Maureen's retirement party?

You squint your sleepy eyes towards the graying widow's peak, making its way through the entrance. A pink polo shirt stretched above his belly, where pants are supposed to start. But the cargo pants are lagging, holding on for dear life with a belt wrapped around his hips.

You remember Maureen questioning him about "smart casual" and grin. He notices and flags you down with a big hand.

Want to skip the line, huh? Oh well.

You timidly raise a hand too.

"Hey, Jason." An over-practiced smile stretches your stiff skin.

"Fancy bumping into you here! What's your pleasure?" His eyes glisten as the corners of his mouth tilt slightly upwards. He stretches his shoulders and gives you a once-over, studying your reaction.

You indulge him with a polite smile.

"Oh, they're basically done with my caramel latte." You tap your wristband, and it shines the time for a moment.

"Sounds yummy!" He flashes a huge grin at the barista. "Make it two, please!"

"Also to go?" She fumbles with a pile of plastic cups, locked tight by moisture.

"Oh no, no, to drink here," he chirps.

"Of course, I'm sorry." She looks down, a puppy who just ate a shoe. First week, needs confidence, for sure. You pick her gaze up with a warm smile and nod. Better.

Jason has a lot to say about Maureen. You catch only a word here and there as the chatter in the room swallows the rest. You try gesturing towards your ears, but he doesn't notice, so you give up. It won't be long anyway.

Your body yearns for the plastic cup sitting on the counter: the safety buoy you cannot reach while drowning in Jason's monologue.

Be nice, just for a little longer.

You don't need to hear; focus on his body language and mimic it back. He laughs, you laugh. He squirms, you squirm. It's working.

Why isn't she calling your order? Oh, no! She's transferring it into a ceramic cup.

"Wait..."

Too late. She's done and raises an eyebrow towards you. You should have raised your voice. You sigh and compromise again.

"I want to pay," you mouth, one syllable at a time, flashing your card for emphasis.

She raises her thumb and heads for the register. You push your way through the people in time to get the receipt: two lattes.

Two.

You turn around.

Jason's face is flaming as he's frantically going through the many pockets of his cargo pants.

"Don't worry about it, I got you this time!" He's too far for how loud the room is. You step slightly closer and stretch up towards his face.

"I got you!" You point at your card before heading back to the register.

Was that a shimmer in his eyes?

His polo scrapes against your elbow as it sinks ever so slightly into his soft stomach, just before his hot, damp breath creeps into your earlobe.

"Thank you," he whispers. Slowly. His hand settles onto your forearm like a branding iron.

Too long for comfort. Too short to justify a scene.

A fawning smile curves your lips as chills cascade down your spine and you step away.

You numb your body out and focus on the card reader. Of course it had to prompt you for a PIN right now. Your teeth sink into the insides of your lips; something heavy is wrestling the insides of your stomach; Jason's breath grazes the back of your neck.

"I'll find us a table."

The temperature drops as his massive body shifts away from behind you. You allow yourself to breathe again. Clutching the receipt, you turn around, only to see the empty counter and Jason's back breaking through the crowd in the direction of the back room. A mug in each hand.

You sigh again, and follow the line swept by the bottom of his pants, power-shoes clicking on the terracotta tiles. The irony.

The back room is a low tide that won't let the sea of commuters venture any further. Its thick walls allow you to hear the rough breathing of the loitering elderly and the frantic page-turning of the students.

You spot Jason by the window. Next to a table that looks like it's about to collapse under the weight of your mugs.

"Hold down our spot. I'll go get napkins," he says, retreating.

No other exits. No other tables.

You place the mugs away from each other: one by the cornered wooden bench, one by the comfy chair in front of it.

"Good girls always leave the best option to others," Mother used to say.

You sigh and take the bench: it's closest to the restroom.

When Jason reappears, white knuckles wrapped around a stack of napkins, you slide the chair towards him with your foot.

Didn't he see?

The bench's pillow collapses under his added weight. Not meant for two, it's like sitting on a towel now. You clutch your handbag tighter.

Should have put it on the bench, dummy.

Metallic and peppery cologne assaults your nose, mixed with stale sweat and some kind of citrusy deodorant. In a flurry of clunking, Jason drags his mug across the table, then turns to face you. You shrink further into the corner, but the heels propel your knees right into the coarse fabric of his cargo pants.

The pounding of blood inside your ears covers his incessant talking.

You could crawl under the table; you're small enough.

But how would that look?

You're struggling to hold your head still, as his relentless smell chokes the air out of the tiny room.

He laughs at some joke he just made, landing his hand on your forearm. You let him do that before; it would be too weird and rude to ask him to stop now.

Your hands burn against the coffee mug, trying to squeeze the heat out of it, while you're desperately blowing on the scorching vapor. The fingerprints on your forearm burn more.

You sip your coffee, let it scald your tongue, ignore his touch.

Pain covers pain.

"Isn't it too hot?" He points at your mug.

"Oh no, it's just how I like it." You force a steady rhythm in your voice.

"Good to know you like it hot." He winks, touching your arm again. Then his whole face convulses with laughter. "Joking! Joking!" He pats your thigh twice.

A squeaky laugh shakes out of you as you press yourself further against the cold window's glass. You shift your weight into your heels, backing your legs under the table. Your feet scream as they scrape against the toughened leather of the shoes. Victory: a hair-sized gap.

He says something about fate and stares deep into your eyes. Should you look too? Polite conversation requires eye contact.

No, not for that long. Look away!

Blood pools inside your cheeks: you realize how that looks. How you made it look.

"It's crazy... I've felt so lonely since the divorce; it's so hard to connect, even just at a human level..." You nod and think of home. You know the pain of loneliness. He leans in closer. His breath lingers on your cheeks.

"People just don't care about others anymore... Nobody would even listen to a lonely fool... let alone buy him a coffee!"

That shimmer in his eyes again.

Connecting the dots is like swallowing a brick.

"Let me tell you, you are special: you care."

Maybe you're wrong. Maybe he's really just looking for a friend. Maybe you shouldn't hurt a man who made himself vulnerable for the first time in years. Be nice and thank him for the compliment.

"And talking to you feels so natural." His fingers clamp your arm.

Too tight. Too tight!

Your insides snap, and you chug the remains of the molten latte. Scorching pain rolls down your lips and tongue, like sandpaper stripping your skin. It makes its way down your throat and settles around your sternum.

For a moment, a muffled ringing covers everything and tears swell inside your eyes. You blink them back. You're wearing mascara: you will not cry.

He claims your hand in both of his.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to make you sad! I'm such an idiot." Eyebrows pulled up in distress. You didn't want to cause any distress.

"It's okay. I am sorry. I have to..." You gently tug at your own hand. It doesn't budge.

"Here." His left hand leaves yours for a napkin. You nod towards your hand with a sheepish smile. He lets it go. You dab the corners of your eyes, saving the mascara.

"Oh, time really does fly when you're having fun!" He chuckles, cheeks flushed, and then looks down. "Maybe we can do this again... someday?"

Like a warm shower on aching muscles, relief washes over you.

"Sure, someday." You smile and fold down the napkin, sliding it away. "Thanks." You try to stand up, but he won't move.

"Can I get your phone number?" He pulls his phone out.

A fake number won't do.

You curse. Not the kind of "someday" you thought.

"Oh, I'm so bad with numbers, I don't even remember it! Why don't you give me yours?" You make a scene of pulling out your phone.

"Sounds great! It's 555..." He fidgets with the air for a moment. "Funny, now I'm not sure about mine either." A trickle of sweat rolls from his balding head into the bushy beard as he taps all over his screen.

Maybe he is just a clumsy guy looking for a friend after all. Your muscles relax again.

"Found it!"

His damp fingers brush against your hand as he snatches the phone from you. You watch him punch in a bunch of digits. Vibrations shake the flimsy table. His phone's screen lights up with your number.

"There: we have each other!" He hits the red button in triumph.

An automatic chuckle rattles out of your throat.

"Now, I'd talk to you all day, but we have jobs to do," he says, sliding his legs sideways, just enough to create the illusion of a gap. "I'll finish my coffee and maybe catch you outside."

You are forced to squeeze yourself past him in an awkward dance of "What body parts should we rub?" before leaving. Limbs stiff like a plastic doll, you push through; his eyes glued to your back. You won't turn around.

As soon as the morning air lands on your blotched cheeks, your body is propelled forward.

Run.

The leather cuts deeper and deeper into your toes with every step, but it won't stop you.

"Proper ladies never run." Mother used to say.

As your sweaty back slides against the office chair, you look at the bleeding mess inside your shoes and think of how she raised you. Polite and proper.

That shimmer in his eyes when you paid...

"Did you lead him on?"

The phone buzzes away the memory of Mother's voice.

Your stomach churns.

Like defusing a bomb, you carefully expand the preview:

"Hey, it's me! Let me buy you a drink tonight to thank you for that coffee? I'll be at your cubicle at five. Not taking no for an answer! ;)"