The TalkHouse

Burning had become an inescapable part of Hell. The coffee shop buried within Spring Park Avenue stood out with its modern architecture, lined with copper plumbing pipes and a preppy aesthetic Camila Sanchez considered as inexpensive as the custom Ukraine leather wrapped around her body.

The two-story vintage cafe had a history for requiring such a pretentious wardrobe that may have been worth more than Camila’s biweekly paycheck. She appreciated the limited access to high class material (material she had first claimed was stolen her first week in an attempt to sell it; her job was in jeopardy shortly after), but it didn’t make up for the unlimited amount of times she burned herself with their confusing machinery and lost shreds of her dignity with her “foreign” dialect.

Camila was unaware how she landed this job in the first place (especially because it was in Marseille, France), but if it weren’t for the somewhat generous salary, she would leave in a heartbeat.

God knows she tried. Tried to ignore the need to be successful, the habits from her past that drove her to the dead end she works at today. But the money was good, and it was better than living on the streets in a country she was just starting to become familiar with.

The bell above the front glass door of The TalkHouse (which was easier to say than La Maison De La Parole) had Camila turning away from the wooden barstool she was wiping down. A group of men walked in, planting their intimidating bodies at the front of the shop. One of them began fiddling with the sugar packets at the coffee bar, an action Camila repeated with her pen as she walked over. She straightened her apron, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and pulled out a pad with her other hand before leaning an elbow on the counter.

“Bonjour, messieurs. What can I get you?”

The one pinching the sugar packets looked up, making a face as if he noticed her failed attempt at sounding the least bit of French.

He cleared his throat, dusted off an invisible piece of hair before answering with a heavy accent, “Coffee. Two sugars,” he paused to look over at his comrades before turning back to an already impatient Camila. “Please.”

She nodded, slipping the pad back into her front pocket. Her feet carried her to the french pressed coffee she had prepared earlier that day and lifted it off the heater. A simple coffee order allowed more time for Camila to clean for the rest of her shift (which lasted till two hours before midnight) and organize the new greenery coming in later that day. Her general manager had requested that Camila be the person to decorate the outdoor area- something to do with her diverse and innovative ways of expression. Whatever that meant.

Camila finished up the man's order quickly before slipping his one dollar tip into the glass jar perched on the counter. She eyed the rest of the men standing by the door, and wondered if they were either training to be red carpet mannequins or enjoying The TalkHouse’s scenery. But even if they were partaking in the latter, she couldn’t blame them even if she tried. The shop did well not only with its coffee but with its- to say the least- different architecture.

Its slanted roof gave way to many second floor-touched windows, decorated with multiple hanging plants that never left even with a seasonal change. And despite Camila’s struggles to dress warm in the fall, the leaves of The TalkHouse plants always found a way to match the weather’s auburn beauty.

The interior told a different story, with its monochromatic pinewood trend and sage green wallpaper highlights. Whoever designed the inside definitely had an inspiration board, Camila had thought on the first day of her interview. She took her own pictures as a reference for her kitchen that same day.

And while the slick steel and iron coffee makers gave her a headache most of the time, Camila couldn’t ignore their perfect placement by the coffee bar.

But who was she kidding. It was just coffee.

The sound of wheels gliding across the wooden platform of the cafe made Camila look away from the still stoic businessman. The plants she was supposed to hang up around the store were carefully balanced on a green dolly, riding in front of a young man whose outfit looked similar to hers.

He waved her over, putting the dolly down and moving the plant that had made a home in front of his face to the floor. Camila walked over, stopping in her tracks for a split second before continuing.

Her neighbor stood in front of her, hands slipped into his pockets with a plant placed in front of him. Camila looked down at the plant, then back up at the man she only saw once every few days.

“Hey! Lucas right?” Camila took the clipboard he handed to her, signing it quickly. He took it back and nodded.

“Yeah. Glad you remembered.” He looked down to check her signature before raising his head and flashing her a small smile. The rest of the plants were unloaded silently, and Camila turned to take care of another customer. When she finished, she rushed over to Lucas and offered a cup of coffee. On her.

He looked down at his watch and shuffled through his pockets, pulling out a few crisp bills. He handed them to her before making his way to the bar. “I’ll take a coffee, but you won’t be paying for me.”

Camila nodded, resting her arms on the counter and leaning forward in a way that made Lucas scratch his neck. “What would you like?”

He cleared his throat, checking his watch again before shrugging. “Surprise me. I’m sure you’re somewhat aware of the frequent orders around here.”

She laughed nervously, adjusting the strap tied around the back of her waist before washing her hands in the nearby sink. He was talking as if he knew of her lack of memorization with specialty drinks and regular orders.

“How does a cold brew sound?” She started working, grabbing a plastic cup and dumping some ice in.

“No, something else.”

Camila stopped, looking over and laughing awkwardly. “Why? What’s wrong with a cold brew?” She looked down and back up. “I swear it won’t taste bad. I know I’m making it but I am not that terrible.” She kept rambling.

He stared at her, the corner of his lips lifting up slightly.

She huffed before placing down the cup. “Okay, caramel latte?”

Lucas shaked his head, a piece of his brown hair falling over his eyes. He brushed it back before leaning forward, crossing his arms on the counter.

“Espresso and steamed milk does not sound very appealing right now.”

“Fine. Mazagran?”

He tilted his head, deadpanning Camila with a look. “I’m working.”

She rolled his eyes and pulled out the rum and coffee. “So am I.” She dumped out the ice from her failed cold brew attempt and poured herself a bit of the former.

Lucas pursed her lips and held back a smile. “Reckless.”

Camila shook her head, tilting it back to get every last drop. “You talk too much.”

“I believe I’m in the right place then.” Camila furrowed her eyebrows, watching as Lucas pointed to the name of the cafe on the menu in front of him.

“Ha.”

“I’ll have a croissant.”

“Of course, your highness.”

She fanned out a napkin, grabbing one of the croissants in the glass display before handing it to Lucas. He thanked her before turning to the plants still resting on the floor.

“By any chance, do you need any help with those?”

Camila looked over and sighed, shrugging with defeat. “It wouldn’t hurt but I’m the only one on call today. My shift started this morning and I’m not done till later tonight.”

Lucas hummed, taking a bite out of his croissant. He chewed- and Camila creepily took a second to admire his strong jawline and pretty green eyes. They even matched the shop. She snorted at her comparison.

“Well, I believe that by asking if you needed any help, I was offering my own assistance.” He checked his watch before taking off the leather delivery vest he was wearing.

“Aren’t you still working?” She waved the bottle of rum that was still out.

He raised his vest in response, slinging it over the chair. “I just ended.”

Camila looked around the now empty cafe. It was half past nine, and she doubted any more tourists or nearby college students would want to stay for only half an hour. Except Lucas.

“Well, alright.” She took her apron off, making her way towards the potted and roped-in plants near the back of the store. She heard footsteps follow behind her.

“I was thinking of putting this hanging one right outside, and switching this sunflower for the one in the corner.” Camila looked over at the plant she neglected for the past few weeks, wincing at its dying roots. Lucas chuckled, knowing exactly what had happened.

“Sure.” He grabbed the hanging plant and made his way outside, taking his time with its placement while Camila dragged the large sunflower over to the depressing corner.

“So I was thinking-” Camila called as she passed by the front door.

“That’s never a good thing.”

She ignored him, grabbing some gardening gloves before returning back to the sunflower. “You don’t have that heavy of an accent. And you don’t. . .” Camila paused. ‘Look American’ didn’t sound like the best way to approach a conversation with her rarely seen neighbor.

“Look American?” He answered, finishing up with the outdoor plants.

Soulmates.

She coughed, placing down a mat so dirt didn’t get everywhere before digging her hands in the old pot. “I mean when you put it that way. . .”

Lucas laughed, helping her lift up the heavy pile of dirt. “I was born here but shortly after I went to America. My parents were fluent in both languages and I guess I never picked up on their accent.”

Camila hummed, wiping her hands once they finished patting down the new flower. “I moved here to study abroad my second year but ended up going back shortly after. I was never able to fully understand your language so I finished my degree back home and then came back for a gap year,” She looked down at their decent gardening work. “Don’t ask me why, but I guess I love being illiterate to the point that I stay where I’m least needed.”

She stood up, taking the old filled pot with her. Lucas took it from her hands quickly, and they made their way to the back to dump all the trash out.

Camila let a breath out, turning to her new friend. “Thank you.”

He nods. “I’ll see you around the apartments then?” She asked.

Lucas smiled, reaching into Camila’s pocket and pulling out her pad and pen. He scribbled something down, handing it to her afterwards.

“We can talk somewhere else another time.”

Camila looked down, seeing a number and the address to a nearby cafe.

“Oh,” She couldn’t help the blush that spread across her cheeks. “Another time, sure.”

They said their goodbyes, and Camila placed the pad down on the counter before quickly cleaning up the rest of the cafe. The clock turned ten, signaling the end of her shift right as she hung up her apron on the crew member hooks.

When she finished, Camila grabbed her purse from the back before heading to the bar to take home the number on the pad. Instead, there on the pristine pinewood, lay a single sunflower- a reminder of her unfinished job and decorative fantasies.