Page 18 of Sorry, We're Closed

I couldn’t.

This doesn’t stop the thoughts of Avory flooding my mind though as I eventually drift away into the night. I’ll figure out how to stop these thoughts tomorrow.

“Cappuccino, please!”

“Double espresso and hurry!”

“Caramel low-fat latte with almond milk, and a strawberry tart. Thank you!”

“Four large lattes quickly, I have a meeting to get to!”

“Tea, English with cow’s milk.”

“Good morning, Sawyer. Black coffee and a croissant, please!”

Monday mornings. Where the traffic jams of early hour commuters make their all-important pitstop into Sombre’s Café for the assemblage of coffee orders with a side of overwhelming noise from the various voices, ringtones and tapping of shoes on the hardwood floors.

Anxiety always bubbles to the surface on mornings like this as manners are tossed away for most, I am placed beneath everyone and remembering to breathe becomes a task for later me.

Waves of steam travel over and throughout my button up shirt, the gap between each button acting like vents and cooling me ever so slightly, but not enough to make me feel comfortable. When hiding my front from the lanes of customers growing inside the Café, I undo my top buttons, the beginnings of my collarbones peeking through while a sense of relief wafts over me.

My throat finally relaxes, and a deep breath fills my lungs, the shirt pulling tight against my chest until a strong exhale exits through my mouth.

This process continues:turn, inhale, strong exhale, turn back. It continues until the last woman takes her order and struts away with a bounce in each step. The emptiness has never been more welcome than right now.

The machines fall silent, I place my sole focus into filling and emptying my lungs, and the door remains shut. Having no one sit in so early in the morning, the café remains pristine, so the machines are going once more, but this time for me.

I grab the largest mug I can find, one that was gifted to me by a local for my eighteenth birthday, which has an S painted on the side, surrounded by doodles of leaves and branches in pastel colours. I fill it to the brim, a slight trickle of frothy milk trailing down the side of the mug as I bring it to my mouth and sip away. My eyes flutter as I continue to sip away at my drink, the front doorbell having never seemed so obnoxious as it throws me back into reality.

I duck under the counter to grab a napkin, dragging it across my mouth and chin, before rising back to my height to serve.

He’s here.

He’s standing on the other side of the counter again and that great big ball of anxiety welcomes itself back into my throat. He knows nothing about me, about my life, and he doesn’t need to, because this, whateverthisis, isn’t going to go anywhere. It can’t.

“Hey again.”

His voice is soft and clear, a gentle and calming tone follows with that same smile from before. That same smile which forces the ball in my throat to ease into nothing, as a wave of relief begins to envelop me.

This has never happened before. This feeling never goes away until one of two circumstances commence: I either surrender and crumble into a pile, overwhelming heat and boiling anxiety which finally bubbles over and floods my senses, or I distract myself so much that it gets forgotten. I have never felt it casually ease away from me, and that was because of Avory Bright.

“Hi, what can I get you?” I try my best to hide the trembling in my voice.

“The same as before please, if you remember. If not, I can tell you?”

Of course, I remember – a three shot, dark roast, cow’s milk coffee and an iced oat latte with hazelnut syrup – but my own mouth stumbles in front of me before I can overthink my answer to avoid as much conversation as possible.

“Could you remind me, please? Monday mornings are just so busy…” My voice trails off and Avory’s is just background noise. I don’t understand why I couldn’t stop my mouth from rambling ahead of me, but I use these few moments I have between finishing my question and Avory finishing his answer to just look at him. Take him all in.

Standing in front of me is a stunning man. A dark dress sense which he decorates with silver chains hugging his hips, waist, and neck. Waves of hair which resonate greatly with The Great Waves off Kanagawa – my favourite artwork.

His frame, body, build, while hidden by clothing pieces which are far too big for him, is the canvas and everything else about him is the art, and he is the most gorgeous piece of artwork. A piece you would frame in something delicate yet beautiful, most likely gold, too.

My heart screams with wishing my arms could be that something delicate. To hold him, touch him, the thoughts of his rough fingertips on mine still lingering and I can’t shut it up. I can’t keep thinking about this. My heart shrieks with a piercing tone for a chance to get to know Avory, my mind pounds at my skull at even the slightest thought of what could happen if I did.

“I’ll get that made for you now.”

“Sure, thanks, Sawyer.”

---