Page 14 of Sorry, We're Closed

My eyes remain shut as I bash my hand across the side table, searching for my phone or a cable which would lead to my phone – nothing. My eyes peel themselves open to be met with the blonde glaze of sunlight that has cast itself over my bedroom. The throbbing in my head growing restless as I find my phone on the floor.

Nearly midday.

I struggle to even remember what time we got home last night, or how we got home, or if Marcus even got home since silence swamps the flat.

I haul myself out of bed and dare to look in the mirror to see what remains of me, and surprisingly, everything seems fine except for my eyeliner smudging across my temples and a hair tie gripping for dear life to the smallest amount of hair, a kink remaining where it was originally wrapped around.

I peer at the ajar bathroom door, and as if it’s my calling, I decide a shower is needed more than anything else. The invasive overhead lighting displays the true state of myself, and as I strip the little clothing I went to bed in, I climb in and under the rainfall shower head.

The hot water runs along every arch and bend of my body, the scent of stereotypical, masculine musk overwhelming the bathroom is just what I needed. My knots and waves fall forward as I lean on the wall, the heat hopefully washing away every piece of evidence of last night, except for the memories of it all.

My hair dries with its natural waves and curls exactly where they need to be, my ripped jeans sit snug and my hoodie buries me, grazing my thighs in length. My chain wraps around my neck and my black studs stand out against my porcelain skin. I pull my lower eyelid down slightly, the left and then the right, and brush along my water lines with my blunting eyeliner, smudging it ever so slightly.

You would never know that my mind was pulsating with waves of tension and desperation for water and painkillers. While my mind may be screaming for an oasis in this desert of pain, I know exactly what I am craving, and I know that Marcus will need it, too, if he’s as bad as me. Coffee.

I tiptoe out of my room and into the flat, my eyes darting around in an attempt to find a groaning, moaning, hunched over man with eye bags so heavy, they will be practically dragging across the floor. Nothing.

I proceed further, with caution, into the room and see Marcus’ door shut with no light trying to creep in from underneath. I hold my breath as I approach the door and gently knock three times, as you don’t ever want to be the person that rips Marcus Bright out of bed on a good day, let alone when he’s nursing a debut gig hangover. A low grumble responds to my knocking, yet the door never opens.

“Morning, Marc! I can assume we’re feeling the same way this morning. As merry as ever?”

The grumbling turns muffled as I can imagine Marcus burying his head into his pillow.

“I’m going to pop out and get this new miracle hangover cure that’s just come out, it’s called coffee. Would you like—”

Marcus’s voice suddenly wakes from its hibernation as he cut me off. “PLEASE!”

“I assume the usual. I’ll be back soon, take it easy!” I laugh to myself as the grumbling continues from the darker side of the door.

The midday sun strokes my skin with its warming touch as the seaside breeze then cools me down, that salty bite to it becoming a new comfort. Having walked the street the other night, I find a new confidence building with Tetherton and with where to look for freshly brewed coffee.

I know that Marcus is going to need something strong, and I am going to need something iced, so with that I begin my search through every shop window and every posted menu until I find myself outside of an emerald building with golden accents along the door and windows.

Wall height windows grace the front of the building, allowing a cascade of natural sunlight to glow against the hanging macramé plant pots, low hanging lights and art framed along the walls.

A sign shaped like a cloud hangs above the front door, cursive writing filling every curve and reading ‘Sombre’s Café’, in an exaggerated cursive style and once again, gold accents surrounding every letter. A café would be a good start for coffee.

The front door causes a ringing to resonate through the café, and one strong wave of coffee, cake and pastries stimulates my senses. The café is small, cosy and has an earthy theme throughout with plants, artwork and trinkets dotting over all its surfaces. A couple of bamboo tables tuck themselves away from the natural sun behind a half wall while the counter sits snug in the corner closest to the door.

I feel myself salivate as I linger over the cake and pastry counter,maybe I could get us some cake on the way out. The menu hangs above the back bench, the same cursive writing outside filling the blackboards with the overwhelming number of options for drinks.

While I prepare myself with Marcus’ order – a full fat cow’s milk latte with three shots of dark roasted coffee – I begin to plan my order, and my mind goes straight for the hazelnut syrup that Sombre’s Café has to offer – a large, iced oat milk latte with hazelnut syrup, two shots. That’s it.

I approach the counter before noticing the emptiness of the café compared to the bustling streets outside. I use the time it takes for someone to come around and serve me as time to observe the people of Tetherton throughout their daily lives on this Saturday afternoon, but it seems I couldn’t observe for long as someone turns up without me noticing.

“Hi there, have you been waiting long? I just had to pop out the back to get some more milk. What can I get you today?”

I bring myself back into the café and out of the lives of the random people walking by, and turn to face the soft, sweet voice addressing me.

Damn, this barista is cute.

Seven

Sawyer

“Hi there, have you been waiting long? I just had to pop out the back to get some more milk. What can I get you today?”

I speak with more projection than usual as I face the back wall since I notice that someone had waltzed into the café and is currently waiting for me to serve them.

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