It’s an eight-minute walk from the student services building.
Ten twenty.
Ten twenty-two.
Ten twenty-four.
The itch intensifies to unbearable levels, slithering under my skin and driving me crazy.
My chest squeezes.
My heart races.
“Mind if I take my break early?” I ask Bev.
The question comes out a lot louder than I was expecting, and I anticipate a sharp look from her, or at least one that asks a question.
“Sure, hun,” she says, eyes fixed on her screen.
I walk as fast as I can while still appearing normal. Cool air blasts my face as I get outside, and I hang a tight left after the gables. I get stuck behind a group of slow walkers at the fountain. My heart picks up its pace. Anxiety and anticipation morph to hot rage.
It should be illegal to walk slowly in public. It should be a crime that comes with a hefty fine. Maybe more. Yeah. Jail time for repeat offenders. Not much jail time. Not enough to ruin anyone’s life or anything, but enough to act as a strenuous deterrent.
I manage to overtake them when the path widens, turning to give them a filthy look as I pass, and book it to Crema at a speed that sees me arriving panting and sweaty.
He’s at the counter when I get there.
When I see him, the air around me thins and I’m hit by a wave of emotion. A drenching, drowning wave. A complicated mix of things that don’t usually go together. Feelings that make no sense when placed this close to each other.
Relief and panic.
Relief that I got here in time and haven’t missed him. Relief that he’s here and I’m here.
Relief that we’re sharing the same space. Breathing the same air.
Relief that he’s wearing a slightly too-big faded gray T-shirt today, and that the fabric looks soft, like it always does.
Panic that I’ve lost my shit and can’t stay away from him.
I take my place in the line, four people behind him, and to be on the safe side, I pull a cap on and keep my head down.
“Two espresso frappuccinos, extra-large, please.” His voice is deep, but not quite as deep as I had imagined. It’s smooth, but there’s a husk in it when he laughs that isn’t there when he talks.
He says something to the server that I don’t quite catch, and she offers him a free shot of hazelnut syrup.
“Sure, why not?” he replies easily.
She smiles at him as though they share an intimate secret, and whispers something to him about the magical, aphrodisiac powers of hazelnut syrup and how the exchange of said syrup binds people together for all eternity.
I’m paraphrasing, obviously. But not by much.
Her cheeks go bright pink when she stops talking, and he adds a chocolate-chip cookie to his order to make her feel better about the interaction.
The exchange is almost identical to the one I observed last week. And the week before.
When she’s taken his payment and handed him his order, he thanks her and finds a table near the window. She stares after him, blissfully unaware that the interaction means more to her than it does to him. She feels special, but she isn’t. He treats every person he encounters like they’re singular and important.
He’s nothing if not predictable.
