“Coming right up.”
My eyes can’t help but seek her out every moment that my mind drifts. I try to recall all the faces I saw last night, try to guess which one of those guys is the lucky bastard who gets to know her. I can’t single out anyone whom I’d pin as her match.
Our first excursion begins soon. I can smell the preparations for breakfast just through the doors next to the bar.
Ceramic painting.
Juno would have loved that one.
I offer the barista a wistful smile as I take the mug and press it eagerly to my lips. The smell of the sugar hits me before the sickeningly sweet concoction assaults my tongue. “What the hell,” I choke. “What the hell is this?”
“You asked for what she’s having,” the barista shrugs. “Should have asked what she got before you ordered.”
Apparently.
Blondie turns her attention towards us, assessing the commotion.
“How many pounds of sugar do you consume in the morning?” I ask from across the room. Her brows shoot to her hairline, accosted by my inquiry.
“I’m sorry, why do you care?” She replies, one brow still raised while the other frowns with disapproval.
“I don’t, but maybeyoushould,” I huff, giving the barista the mug back. “Coffee, black.”
“Oh, well, as long as we agree that you shouldn’t care, I can go back to not being a psychopath that drinks black coffee, and you can go back to minding your business.” Her lips part in a smile so cold that the temperature in the room drops.
I take a grateful sip of my psychotic, black coffee to hide the grin it pulls from me.
My curiosity grows. The question of who she’s here with burns a hole in my brain.
“Good morning!” Gayle whizzes into the room, fully dressed, makeup done, hair slicked back into a tight bun. “Happy to have some more early risers around here for a change.” She takes a cup from the barista, two peppermint tea bag tags dangle over the side as she takes a healthy sip.
I was impressed with her already, but knowing she shows up like this every morning without an ounce of caffeine in her system makes me a little afraid of her.
“Are you a photographer?” She asks me, deep brown eyes sparkling with curiosity.
Frosty the Snow Queen returns to her musing, sipping her melted sugar and staring out the window again, a little less icy now that the sun is up.
“A filmmaker. The photography is just for fun,” I explain.
“Wow, that’s amazing. What kind of films do you make?” She follows.
“Documentaries,” I reply.
She blinks up at me, takes another sip of her tea, then blinks up at me again. She actually wants to know about my job. Most people are satisfied with the initial answer, then go on a tangent about that one darkroom class they took their junior year of high school, or worse, start showing me the Facebook profiles of their one aunt that does the maternity shoots for their small town.
“I mainly focus on grief. My first documentary followed me getting my life back together after losing my son to leukemia and then losing my wife in a divorce.” I expect her to blanch at this information, like most people do. I’m quickly learning that Gayle Emerson is not like most people.
“Wow, I’m sorry for your loss. That’s such a powerful way to use your art. When I was thirteen, I also lost my dad to cancer,” she says.
My head falls to the side as I regard her, suddenly understanding that the quiet strength rolling off of her was forged from necessity.
“I hear an accent. Where are you from?” I ask.
The tiny smirk that puckers her lips brims with all the pride in the world. “Jamaica.”
“Damn, that must have been tough. Not having your dad and living in Jamaica.” I empathize, thinking back to all those times I’d cried myself to sleep, wishing it was me instead of him.
“That it was, but it would have been difficult anywhere,” she hums. “Walk with me.”
