HOME | DD

Description
“Twelve sixty-two,” the barista, a teenager with blond hair and deep grey eyes, told me. Thirteen dollars for two large coffees, I thought to myself as I removed a twenty from my wallet. Ridiculous. The girl gave me my change, though only after I corrected her when she shorted me a dollar, and I stepped to the end of the counter to wait as the coffees were prepared. I glanced across the room at the booth where I had left the woman to make sure she was still there. She seemed real enough, I thought, but yet so delicate and transparent that the entire encounter seemed to have been nothing more than a figment of my imagination. And yet she was still there, sitting upright and looking out the window at the grey street, still looking just as beautiful as she had when I had left her to stand in line. I cursed the service quietly to myself. Waiting to get back to her was torture; I felt as if I only had a short time with her, that for every second I wasted away from her, she slipped through my fingers a little more.
An apron-clad employee shoved the coffees on the counter with haste, accommodating himself for the evening rush. I took the two slender white cups in my hand and made my way past the growing line of businessmen and women, young mothers, and a group of young teenage girls who were talking obnoxiously loud and seemed to know the blond behind the counter who had waited on me. “Samantha ” they yelled over the line, “Is your boss working? Can you hook us up with some free iced lattes?” Samantha shook her head and beckoned them toward her, much to the annoyance of the rest of the line.
“Keep quiet,” she whispered loudly enough so that I could hear her, “And I’ll see what I can do.”
I arrived back at the table where I left the woman, and she turned her attention from the street outside to me. Her eyes grazed my face softly before fixating upon the coffee in my hand. I extended her cup towards her before taking a seat and she took it into her own hands before closing her eyes and taking a sip. “Mm,” she offered, as a thank you, I assumed. She opened her eyes, looked at me, and blinked twice before asking, “Are you going to sit down, Mr. Casey?”
“You can just call me Evan,” I said, while sliding into the booth. Instantly, I regretted my words, thinking that I almost sounded harsh beneath my genuine sincerity. She eyed me.
“Evan, then.”
“You never told me your name,” I began, hoping she wouldn’t make the task of telling me overly difficult, as she seemed to do with everything else.
“You never asked,” she replied coolly before taking another sip of coffee. I stared at her. This was going to be no easy task.
“Well, I’m asking now. I told you mine, so it’s only fair.”
“Let’s not talk about fairness, Evan. I haven’t signed anything.” Was she kidding? What kind of a response was that?
“No, but...” I started, trying to think of a response that didn’t make apparent how desperate I was to know who this woman was and what she was doing here with me. I didn’t even to know what exactly I was doing there with her, buying her coffee when my girlfriend was probably at home, waiting for me to call her and see what she wanted to do that night. “But I bought you coffee.”
“And I appreciate it.” Damn, this woman was good.
“Fine, I’m not going to beg you.”
“Suit yourself,” she answered without thinking, and looked back out towards the street.

We sat like that, me staring at her staring at the passing cars, for what seemed like years. Finally, after a few minutes of what was awkward silence to me but seemed a comfortable silence to her, I spoke. “So what are your hobbies?”
The smirk that appeared on her face made me feel stupid for asking such a dumb question, the way strangers standing next to each other at a crosswalk often feel– or should feel– after commenting on the weather to break the silence. “Hobbies. Mm,” she answered. “Cigarettes and serial killers.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, somewhat alarmed. Something had told me she wasn’t kidding.
“Cigarettes and serial killers. You asked what my hobbies were.”
“Right,” I replied. “I just don’t get how cigarettes and serial killers fit the bill of a hobby. Most people’s hobbies are along the lines of sports, or art, or stamp collecting or something.” She just stared at me, her pretty green eyes looking more blank by the second. “You’re not into any of that?”
“You asked what my hobbies are, and I told you,” she took another drink of coffee and continued. “I don’t go around telling you what your hobbies should be.” I sat back, stunned.
“I like painting,” I told her. “I wanted to go to art school but I didn’t think it would ever really get me anywhere. So I’m an accountant now.”
“That’s nice.” By the time “nice” rolled off her tongue, I was angry. Not just irritated, but full-blown pissed off. Here I was, trying desperately to get this woman to open up to me, and she was shooting every one of my attempts down with such futile effort.
“Alright, well, nice meeting you,” I said flatly, before easing my way out of the booth, taking my untouched coffee with me. “I’ve gotta run.” She twirled her dark hair around the pale, slender middle finger of her right hand. I took one last look at her– Goddamn, she was beautiful– and turned around to march my way out. I was halfway out the door before I heard her voice behind me.
“Evan,” she called, quietly, as if she half-hoped I wouldn’t hear her, but knew I would. I turned around on the heel of my left foot. “My name,” she said, “is Jenna.”

Description
“Twelve sixty-two,” the barista, a teenager with blond hair and deep grey eyes, told me. Thirteen dollars for two large coffees, I thought to myself as I removed a twenty from my wallet. Ridiculous. The girl gave me my change, though only after I corrected her when she shorted me a dollar, and I stepped to the end of the counter to wait as the coffees were prepared. I glanced across the room at the booth where I had left the woman to make sure she was still there. She seemed real enough, I thought, but yet so delicate and transparent that the entire encounter seemed to have been nothing more than a figment of my imagination. And yet she was still there, sitting upright and looking out the window at the grey street, still looking just as beautiful as she had when I had left her to stand in line. I cursed the service quietly to myself. Waiting to get back to her was torture; I felt as if I only had a short time with her, that for every second I wasted away from her, she slipped through my fingers a little more.
An apron-clad employee shoved the coffees on the counter with haste, accommodating himself for the evening rush. I took the two slender white cups in my hand and made my way past the growing line of businessmen and women, young mothers, and a group of young teenage girls who were talking obnoxiously loud and seemed to know the blond behind the counter who had waited on me. “Samantha ” they yelled over the line, “Is your boss working? Can you hook us up with some free iced lattes?” Samantha shook her head and beckoned them toward her, much to the annoyance of the rest of the line.
“Keep quiet,” she whispered loudly enough so that I could hear her, “And I’ll see what I can do.”
I arrived back at the table where I left the woman, and she turned her attention from the street outside to me. Her eyes grazed my face softly before fixating upon the coffee in my hand. I extended her cup towards her before taking a seat and she took it into her own hands before closing her eyes and taking a sip. “Mm,” she offered, as a thank you, I assumed. She opened her eyes, looked at me, and blinked twice before asking, “Are you going to sit down, Mr. Casey?”
“You can just call me Evan,” I said, while sliding into the booth. Instantly, I regretted my words, thinking that I almost sounded harsh beneath my genuine sincerity. She eyed me.
“Evan, then.”
“You never told me your name,” I began, hoping she wouldn’t make the task of telling me overly difficult, as she seemed to do with everything else.
“You never asked,” she replied coolly before taking another sip of coffee. I stared at her. This was going to be no easy task.
“Well, I’m asking now. I told you mine, so it’s only fair.”
“Let’s not talk about fairness, Evan. I haven’t signed anything.” Was she kidding? What kind of a response was that?
“No, but...” I started, trying to think of a response that didn’t make apparent how desperate I was to know who this woman was and what she was doing here with me. I didn’t even to know what exactly I was doing there with her, buying her coffee when my girlfriend was probably at home, waiting for me to call her and see what she wanted to do that night. “But I bought you coffee.”
“And I appreciate it.” Damn, this woman was good.
“Fine, I’m not going to beg you.”
“Suit yourself,” she answered without thinking, and looked back out towards the street.

We sat like that, me staring at her staring at the passing cars, for what seemed like years. Finally, after a few minutes of what was awkward silence to me but seemed a comfortable silence to her, I spoke. “So what are your hobbies?”
The smirk that appeared on her face made me feel stupid for asking such a dumb question, the way strangers standing next to each other at a crosswalk often feel– or should feel– after commenting on the weather to break the silence. “Hobbies. Mm,” she answered. “Cigarettes and serial killers.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, somewhat alarmed. Something had told me she wasn’t kidding.
“Cigarettes and serial killers. You asked what my hobbies were.”
“Right,” I replied. “I just don’t get how cigarettes and serial killers fit the bill of a hobby. Most people’s hobbies are along the lines of sports, or art, or stamp collecting or something.” She just stared at me, her pretty green eyes looking more blank by the second. “You’re not into any of that?”
“You asked what my hobbies are, and I told you,” she took another drink of coffee and continued. “I don’t go around telling you what your hobbies should be.” I sat back, stunned.
“I like painting,” I told her. “I wanted to go to art school but I didn’t think it would ever really get me anywhere. So I’m an accountant now.”
“That’s nice.” By the time “nice” rolled off her tongue, I was angry. Not just irritated, but full-blown pissed off. Here I was, trying desperately to get this woman to open up to me, and she was shooting every one of my attempts down with such futile effort.
“Alright, well, nice meeting you,” I said flatly, before easing my way out of the booth, taking my untouched coffee with me. “I’ve gotta run.” She twirled her dark hair around the pale, slender middle finger of her right hand. I took one last look at her– Goddamn, she was beautiful– and turned around to march my way out. I was halfway out the door before I heard her voice behind me.
“Evan,” she called, quietly, as if she half-hoped I wouldn’t hear her, but knew I would. I turned around on the heel of my left foot. “My name,” she said, “is Jenna.”