Page 108 of The Black Table
His words are clipped and musical, a foreign accent I can’t quite place—Eastern European, somewhere. That, combined with his relatively imposing height and the sharp cut of his brown suede jacket make him feel oddly sophisticated compared to the rest of the largely student patrons—even though he has to be around college age himself.
And he clearly has no idea who I am.
“I…sorry,” I stammer. I clench my fists hard. “I thought you…” I wheel my gaze around the room, but everyone’s gone back to their conversations and chocolate croissants, no one daring to make eye contact now. “The song—I thought you were making fun of me.”
“No.” He shakes his head—dark curls, dark eyes, high cheekbones—and I notice for the first time the thin silver chain aroundhis neck with a tiny cross hanging at the hollow of his throat. He turns to the barista, signals for her attention. “Excuse me. Miss?”
She perks her head up, not without glancing at me. I recognize her, vaguely, from campus—stubby brown ponytail and cat-eye glasses.
“She does not like the music,” he says, gesturing at me. “Could you please change songs?”
“I…” The barista girl looks caught off guard, like she’s torn between thisever so cleverpractical joke and six-plus feet of tall, dark, and handsome asking her a favor.
“Please,” he adds again, with a smile. “I thank you.”
“Sure,” she chirps, and scurries off to fiddle with a screen. Satisfied, he turns to me.
“Hopefully it is better now.”
I swallow, my mouth gone dry. The song shifts to something warm and inoffensive—lo-fi, no lyrics—and I feel my head go up and down in a nod, but I’m not sure I am feeling better.
No, I’m definitely not. The ringing is still in my ears. The cold sweat springing up on my chest and neck. Every pulse of my heart palpable.
I’m going to have a panic attack.
“Good.” He nods back, holds out a hand, his voice tinny and distant. “I am Alexei.”
Pulse. Pulse. My heart has taken over my whole body, my whole consciousness, and it takes me a minute to realize he’s introducing himself—formally. I take his hand, feeling slow-motion, like a marionette, and manage to shake it. It’s firm, oddly cold.
“I’m…Gwenna,” I hear myself say.
He nods—or bows, almost—just as it’s his turn at the register. Beneath me, the floor tips sideways. I swallow, desperate, chasing calm and not finding it.
“What can I get for you?” says a male barista.
“Coffee. Black, please. And for you?”
Me. He’s talking to me. Alexei. The stranger.
“I…the same.” I blink. “Excuse me,” I say hurriedly, stepping past him. “I just…excuse me a second.”
I push blindly past low armchairs and cylindrical side tables to the back of the coffee shop, where miraculously I find the door marked W.C. right where I’d hoped. I all but fall inside and slam the door behind me, panting in the cramped space of black tile and eucalyptus-scented air.
I’m suddenly hot, too hot, sweating all over, so I frantically strip myself from my coat, needing out of the heaviness and heat. It’s still not enough, so I push my sweater sleeves to my elbows, rush to the sink and scoop back my hair, throwing water on my face.
Fingers dripping, I grip the edge of the sink and stare at the silver circle of the drain.
All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
Maybe it’s the lingering effects of the weird tarot reading. Maybe I’m actually insane and just incapable of getting an actual grip. Maybe it’s some kind of immune reaction to a total stranger being generous to me, for once.
Whatever it is, it’s powerful.
And yet…it’s passing.
Slowly, slowly, the dread ebbs out of me, leaving sheer exhaustion in its wake. My shoulders feel heavy, my breathing ragged like I’ve just sprinted a mile. But every heartbeat gets me that little bit closer to calm.
Finally, I’m steady again. Or steady enough.
