Page 16 of Sorry, We're Closed

Avory. Avory Bright.Avory goddamn Bright.

He isn’t just some random man who decided to stroll into the café who I could eventually forget, no, now he's Avory Bright whose name is so beautiful, it’s terrifying. I can’t be thinking about this right now. His smooth tone drags me back to my now shaking hands in front of Avory.

“Thanks…?” He hesitates, trying to figure out if I ever told him my name as I point to the name and pronouns badge I have pinned to my beige jumper.

Sawyer, He/Him.

“Well thank you, Sawyer. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again since you are the only person I know in this town.”

I notice the sheer size of the platform underneath his black, military style boots as he walks away with a wave, giving him a couple extra inches above me.

He uses his hip to open the door before sliding out and raising a coffee to me in the window as a thank you again. He’ll see me soon? I know exactly how I need to feel about that, and I am fully aware that a guy who I have spent a handful of minutes with should not have this effect on me.

I have done and will always submit to everyone and everything in my household and within my family, so why did Avory have to choose Sombre’s Café, come in for a fraction of my shift, and then populate every corner of my brain?

It’s safe to say, not much more will be on my mind for the rest of my shift.

Eight

Avory

The space between my fingers starts to create an uncomfortably warm and sticky environment from gripping Marcus’ coffee for so long. I really should’ve asked if Sawyer had a cup holder or some spare sleeves which I could pile over one another to create a barrier between my hand and the hot beverage.

Sawyer. Sawyer Sombre, I assume. He is something else. I have never had a type really, or anything in particular that decides if someone is attractive or not, not even someone’s identity can decide it for me, but from seeing him behind that counter, Sawyer has already decided something for me – I find Sawyer beautiful. I want to know more, and this is a weird sensation.

When our eyes met over the bench, I could sense his mind working, thinking, taking me in as I did the same with him. His emerald eyes shining through his glasses, which sat so delicately on a nose blessed with a sprinkling of freckles, those freckles dispersing across his cheeks and his temples as well.

He clearly knows what looks good on him, with the metallic tint of his frames complementing his natural, copper-toned skin. His brown jeans rolled at the ankles, his beige jumper, which is clearly a size too big but he likes it that way – noted – and a simple gold chain wrapping around his neck also partners perfectly with everything about him that is naturally his.

His hair, oh his hair. I am fixated. Sprouting from his head are these brunette curls and waves, grazing against his eyebrows and covering his forehead. You can tell solely from their look that they are soft, delicate, thick and all I want to do is tangle my hands throughout them and feel them against every crease on my palm.

The sides and back of his head are shaved, but the thickness of his hair is still very prevalent. Everything about him physically, his energy, it all radiates softness, gentleness and something beautiful.

For the few minutes I was in Sombre’s Café, I wasn’t let in on much about Sawyer, his face remained with the same expression, and I miss the opportunity of seeing a smile grace his face.

I can imagine the way his freckles move with his cheeks whenever he smiles or laughs. I bet he has a pretty laugh which he tries to contain to himself and whoever he is with at the time.

One day, I will make him smile and laugh, just to see if I’m right. Saying one day makes me think I’m sticking around?

I attempt to use my elbow on the front door handle, instead slipping and hitting my funny bone, struggling to keep my foul language to a minimum. Kicking my foot behind me and into the door, now stubbing my toe on its corner, the door’s slam ricochets around the flat and sharply throughout Marcus’ head, who has somehow emerged from his gloomy cave of hibernation during his much-needed hours of rest and has now migrated onto the sofa.

I hover over him from the back of the sofa, looking down on this shell of a burly man, who has a blanket covered in dogs in sweaters pulled up to his nose and his eyes shielded into the pillows from the afternoon sun.

“Have you got the goods?”

His musty, espresso eyes peer over the cushions searching for my hands, but maybe I have strategically hidden them behind the wooden build of the sofa so he will actually have to move to get his caffeinated goodness.

His eyes begin to dart, quicker and quicker, between my arms as he claws his way up the sofa, desperate for his antidote. As he finally gets himself to somewhat of an angle that isn’t lying down, I lower his coffee at an agonisingly slow pace into his hand.

“Of course, I have the goods.”

I place Marcus’ coffee into the palm of his hand and rattle my coffee in the air, the ice cubes having melted slightly yet still creating that perfect symphony of clinks.

I push Marcus’ legs off the sofa, and he finally sits up, practically chugging his beverage as I squeeze in next to him, tucking my legs under myself. I eye Marcus constantly lifting and dropping this cup, growing more and more eager with every sip.

“Damn, this coffee is unbelievable. Where did you get this?”

“Sombre’s Café.”

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