Page 1 of Drawn Together
One
Wordoftheday:Vorfreude
Definition: German word forthe pleasure of anticipation
Word of the day: vorfreude
Definition: German word for the pleasure of anticipation
I was ten years old when I first found out magic was real. I discovered it at a local library, of all places—tucked between aisles of hardbacks, surrounded by the smell of old paper, and with a butterscotch resting on my tongue. I was sitting on a watermelon rug with my legs crossed and head tilted back, watching as the youngest librarian read a new book about unicorns or rainbows or rainbow unicorns—I’m not sure. But what I do recall is this: sitting beside my two-year-old sister and watching pure elation light up her face like the Fourth of July. Baby blue eyes stared in amazement, her smile pulled wide with each flip of a page. While other kids picked at the rug beneath them or begged their parents for snacks and ‘up,’ my precious sister clung to every new scene.
The oral telling of the story enthralled the children sitting by us. They took in the high-pitched squeaks of a mousy character or the deep, low rumble of a dragon without a second thought. However, Sloane was deaf and had no choice but to cling to the art on each page of the book. Her eyes embraced the designs, pupils comically large and dancing around the details—the shiny scales of a dragon’s wings, or a majestic rainbow under the big, fluffy clouds. I translated the book for her, my fingers signing along with the vocal changes of our librarian, but it was all useless. Sloane wasn’t focused on the story. She wasn’t worried about plot, or climax, or happy endings.
She was clinging to the art of the book.
So, that was that. Magic was real. And it can only be found folded between the pages of books.
And that magic is what brings me to what has to be, without a doubt, the most important day of my life. Or maybe, the most important era of my life. It’s not exactly a one and done thing, though I like to imagine I work at a brisk pace.
My fingers grip the tablet in my hands, the balls of my feet rocking front to back in a new-to-me cafe. The air boasts a cool breeze from the open doors, smelling of cloves and burnt coffee. A worker shouts ‘Jessica!’ behind the counter, and a large, balding man walks up, grabbing the cup overflowing with whipped cream, and is shocked to find that it’s not his order of an iced green tea. Leaves crunch outside the propped doors, and there are little ceramic pumpkins scattered about.
It’s boots season, and everyone passing by has on their different attire. Businessmen in fancy boots, hotties in stylish brown leather boots with a heel, and tattooed men and women in their Doc Martens with little scuffs of leaves and grass tucked between the worn grooves. I love boots season.
Just before it is my time to order, a delightful woman with a blonde bun comes around the corner with a tray fullof baked goods. She refills the glass display in front of her. Cookies, scones, croissants, donuts. The fried and baked sugary perfections line up one after the other, all mouth-watering, but I only have eyes for one.
My gaze locks onto the most delicious-looking blueberry muffin I have ever made eye contact with. Wrapped in a brown paper robe, she sits there—golden, with steam wafting off her and tiny sugar granules sprinkled on top—calling out my name longingly from two feet away.
The very last muffin. All for me on my most important day.
The woman in front of me wanders off to find herself a seat. I wish her luck; this place is so crammed that you’d be blessed to find as much as a trashcan to shovel your food over like a rat.
The cashier gives me an expectant look, and it is my time to shine. I am going to get my muffin, say a thankful prayer with each loving bite, then I am going to find a spot to get started on my first of, hopefully, many projects to be published.
I point to the muffin in the display case with the vengeance of a child picking out a puppy they want to adopt from a cardboard box in an abandoned parking lot. That one. I smile. She is mine.
Ronaldo, his name tag reads, reaches down to grab my muffin and slides it into a white paper bag before setting it on the counter. He calls out my total, and I know I’m riding a high, because I don’t even pay enough attention to the number to decide if this is a smart purchase for a woman who can barely pay her bills. I just pull my card out and go to tap and—thud.
There is a very large and very veiny hand slamming a shiny black debit card down on the ‘tap’ function, right before I can reach it. The cashier glances from me to whoever is behind me with boredom. I turn to look over my shoulder, and there is a man standing there. This man with a pale, lean, and angular face—sharp cheekbones and scruff along his jawline—just stares down at me, his nutmeg hair all messy and tousled. Disheveled.His mouth leans more to his right than his left, and his eyes are empty…staring at me.
He smells of cigar smoke, a denim jacket in the middle of autumn, and a touch of freshly ground coffee beans—or maybe that’s just Ronaldo behind us.
“Oh.” I tilt my head back and smile. “You didn’t have to pay for my—”
“I didn’t.” His voice is a husky rasp, like he needs to clear his throat. He reaches one hand over my shoulder. There’s rustling by my ear before the hand falls back down by his side, not empty. “I paid for mine.”
“What—” His fingers grasp the white paper bag with my muffin in it, like an ape holding a dandelion. The muffin that was going to be the start of my morning, that was going to be the start of my new career, which is going to be the start of my new life. This is my new era, dang it. This is the start of my dream job in my dream city, and all that was missing was a big stamp of approval on today’s work and a friend or two—or ten—and I would live the life eight-year-old Flora would daydream of in science class.
I quickly decide no. Today is my day, and it is going to be filled with magic and goodness and blueberry muffins, and this two-thousand-twelve Andrew Garfield wannabe here can shove it.
“That’s my muffin.” My voice is assertive with a touch of crazy lady in the whisper beneath it.
“I paid for your coffee.” He dips his head at the latte in my hands. “So, this is my muffin.”
Never mind the latte. I’m likely only going to drink half of it, anyway. But that muffin is the start of my new successful career, and it will not be stolen from my grasp unwillingly.
I turn to the cashier, and Ronaldo shrugs with a bored expression. “He paid.”
“Listen here, pal”—let it be known I never say the word pal—“I understand everyone has their rough mornings, however, today is kind of the most important day of my career, and I am relying on this muffin to push-start me into that. I am somewhat new to New York,” his hazel eyes roll, like it’s an obvious statement when the Lady Liberty sticker on my tablet clearly states NYC LOCAL, “and I am trying to advance into a very important position. So, if you would please just,” I turn to gesture at the full display case of delicious baked goods, “pick something else out.”
