Metal scraping metal.
A lock pick.
I barely remember what came next. My hoodie from the floor because it’s winter. My sneakers in my hand, ready to escape. My laptop and phone because they’re the only things I own of any value.
Then I was out the window. Out the window and running down the street. Calling the cops to hear that they’ll ‘drive by in a few hours.’ They’re too busy this Thursday morning, apparently, since they know I’m ‘safe.’
Then it was me calling Jon to hear thatI’ma fucking narcissist because how dare I have a stalker when he doesn’t have one. Classic Jon. The prick.
And now here I am, standing in the middle of the street, with my stalker in my apartment doing god knows what. Maybe he’s stealing more of my clothes? Maybe he’s wanking into my sheets? Maybe he’s writing a threatening message on the wall in red paint? Or blood? That will be nice to sleep with tonight, since I don’t have anywhere else to go.
All this to say, it’s no wonder I’m scaring small children with my dishevelled appearance.
I push the door open on a nearby cafe. It’s the safest place I can think of to get away from him. And it’s warm. This winter has been vicious, and I’m trying to keep the heating bills down at home, so I come here regularly. On a quiet day, I can get a good two or three hours out of this place before I start feeling too bad about having only bought one coffee.
I join the short queue, looking nervously over my shoulder through the glass door. He’s never followed me away from the house. That I know of. Maybe he has?
If I could just figure out what he wants from me… But this morning, hearing that door handle, seeing it twist… He’s escalating.
Which is why I called Jon. Having to call an ex for help is galling enough. But having to call one for shelter when you specifically broke up during a fight about how you didn’t want to live with him…
What an asshole.
“Order?”
I jump, realising the line that was in front of me has quickly dissipated, and I’m standing in the middle of the cafe holding everyone up. Head down, I shuffle forward and spit out my order as quickly as possible. “Oat cappuccino. Please.”
The woman behind the counter grabs a paper cup and a pen. She’s already writing as she asks, “Takeaway again?”
Again?“N-no. No, it’s for here.”
“Oh.” She pauses with a frown like I just shat in her paper cup, then scribbles out whatever she was writing. She slams the cup back down. “Size?”
“Large.”
Stalling again, she raises an eyebrow. “Two large coffees in the space of an hour?”
“What?” I lick my lips, already anxious about the stalker, having held up the line, having disgraced her paper cup. Now I’m being quizzed about my coffee intake while impatient people glare at my back. “It’s my first today.” I reach for my wallet in the hope that will move things along swiftly.
She grabs the pay station, tapping away, but she mutters, “It’s not good for your health, that much coffee.”
What is she, my doctor? “Yeah, no,” I sort of agree with her. “That’s why I’m just having the one.”
Eyes like a cobra, as if I just slapped her cheek with my duelling glove, she pauses again. She looks over my mess of an outfit. The man behind me shuffles his position pointedly so I can hear his shoes creaking against the floor. He sighs over my shoulder, his morning breath boring into my nostrils. Then everything slows a little when the barista asks, “August?”
Not again…
And now the room shifts, the ivy and the heat lamps and the already dated raw-concrete walls all pressing down on me. My voice comes weak when I ask, “How do you know my name?”
She pushes the pay station forward for me to tap my card. “Because this is your second large coffee today.” She studies my face, and decides, it seems, that I’m neither obtuse nor arrogant. A touch of concern falls across her brow. “You don’t remember being in here?”
“No.”What kind of a stupid answer is that, August?“Yes.”Not better!“Yes, no, I mean, um…”Just give me the coffee!“I just need a coffee.” I smile over the words, squinting my eyes deliberately as if I can blame the lot of this mess on tiredness, but my hand’s shaking as I tap my card to pay.
“I’ll bring it over.” Her lips are tight when she speaks, but her voice has softened a little.
When I take a step back, it’s directly into the chest of the mouth-breather behind me. I desperately want to escape at thispoint, get the coffee takeaway and get out of here, because I know she’s going to be scowling at me for the next two hours while I sip my steadily cooling large drink. But I’m both polite to a fault and too broke to afford my heating bill at home (also, there’s probably a killer there), so I thank her, idiotically apologise to the encroaching guy I walked into, then look for the warmest table in the place.
As soon as I sit down, I realise I’m too close to the heater, but you can imagine how many fucks I give at this point. I rip my hoodie off and get my laptop out so I can pretend I’m busy working. Of course, the job market being what it is, I’ve really got nothing to do but sit here and sink into my anxiety.
