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She comes in at the same time every day.
Fareeha doesn’t know her name. She knows that the woman comes in at eleven A.M. every weekday, that she orders a caramel frappe and bowl of oatmeal every time, and that she is the most beautiful woman Fareeha has ever seen. Other than that, however, Fareeha hasn’t been able to suss any other information out, nor has she gotten the chance to—well, talk to the woman.
“You’re just gonna have to do it,” Jesse advises Fareeha for maybe the millionth time, despite her very much not having asked. “Trust me, if you spend your life waitin’ for the opportunity to come, you’re just gonna waste both her and your own time.”
Now, Fareeha usually heeds Jesse’s advice. He’s like a brother to her, and for as long as she’s known him he’s never led her in the wrong direction. But there are just some things where the Jesse approach does not quite work when it is Fareeha doing it, and this is very much one of them.
“The opportunity will present itself when the time is right,” Fareeha rebuts, for also maybe the millionth time.
“You’re just gonna keep tellin’ yourself that?”
“Yes, and it’s going to keep being true.”
Jesse sighs deeply, pushing off away from the counter and coming to stand next to Fareeha who’s sitting in front of the cash register. It’s just him and Fareeha right now, because the first rush hour for coffee shops and eateries has already past, and the second doesn’t come for quite some time. “I know you ain’t no coward, ‘reeha.”
“I’m not,” she agrees.
“Then why do you run away with your tail between your legs every time she comes in?”
“I don’t…’run away.’” She makes sure to put air quotes around the phrase so that Jesse knows just how much she resents his statement. “It just gets busy. She’s…”
“Conveniently always here right when you’re busy?”
“Yes. Take her up on it if you want.”
Seeming to realize that this conversation is getting neither of them anywhere, Jesse shoves his hands in his pockets and starts towards the kitchen. “Fine, fine, it’s your choice. I’m goin’ out for a smoke break, be back in five.” And with that, he disappears into the kitchen, the sound of the back door opening and closing following him moments later.
Fareeha lets out a deep breath, exhaling slowly, and turns towards the door. They haven’t been very busy today, even in the morning, and she leans on the counter, pulling her phone out of her pocket. She idly checks Facebook, trying to ignore what Jesse had told her. Fareeha’s not a coward, and she’s not “running away” despite what he says about her; she just really doesn’t want to fuck anything up with this woman. And the most immediate, and frankly terrifying way of possibly fucking it up that Fareeha can think of is by coming off as creepy or overeager when they speak—which she knows for certain she will sound like if she tries to talk to her.
So Fareeha has resigned herself to waiting, waiting, waiting, and savoring the brief, tingling happiness she gets when the woman visits, the kind that only comes from a crush.
--
Like she has every weekday for the past three weeks, the woman visits today at eleven A.M.
It’s 11:02 this time. Fareeha hears the bell chime with her entrance and turns towards the door, ready to greet her, already knowing who it’s going to be. She may or may not have been keeping a close eye on the clock for the past half hour, the same way that she may or may not do every weekday. Jesse sees the woman, gives Fareeha a pointed look that might mean now’s your chance, and promptly disappears into the kitchen again. And so they’re alone.
“Good morning,” Fareeha says lightly. The woman takes her hat off, brushing away the snow gathered on top and shaking her head a little bit. It ruffles her platinum blonde hair, but somehow only makes her look prettier for it.
“Good morning.” She gives Fareeha a heart-stopping smile and moves further into the shop, standing a few feet away from the counter to tilt her head back and look at the menu above Fareeha’s head. She’s not wearing any makeup today. “Slow day?”
“The snow definitely doesn’t help business,” Fareeha answers as casually as she can.
The woman laughs, just a small, polite one. “No, I imagine it doesn’t.” She has an accent, although Fareeha has not yet been able to tell what it is in the past few weeks. French? Swiss, maybe?
There’s a question, there, on the tip of her tongue—it’s a remnant of Jesse’s advice earlier, making her want to go back on her own decision, break her own norm. But wouldn’t that be rude? To ask her what her accent is? So Fareeha doesn’t ask it, and instead says (although she’ll wonder in a moment if it’s actually any better), “Considering something different today?”
“Hmm?” The woman looks from the menu to Fareeha. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are red from the cold. It should not be as cute as it is, nor should the way she hums be as endearing.
Fareeha fidgets under her gaze, consciously forcing herself not to shift her weight from foot to foot or push her hair behind her ear. She’s not a damn teenager. Calm down. She’s looking at you, say something… “You’re looking at the menu. Are you thinking about getting something different?”
“I guess so. What would you suggest?”
That catches Fareeha off guard. She doesn’t usually think about the things that she gets here. There are, of course, the weekly specials, the most popular beverages and pastries, things like that that she’s meant to suggest to customers when prompted—but she doesn’t want to give this woman the generic, stock answer, for some reason. So she thinks about her answer.
“For lunch, I’d usually get an architect omelet and iced tea, although you might not want something cold since you were just out walking,” she says, thinking out loud. “You—you like caramel, yes?”
“How’d you guess?” The woman smiles, her voice teasing.
“In that case, um,” Fareeha takes out a smaller one of their menus that they keep on the counter and flips to the beverages section. She scans it for a moment, feeling the woman’s eyes on her as she searches, and the attention makes the back of her neck prickle. “Maybe a caramel cappuccino?”
“Alright, an architect omelet and caramel cappuccino.” She moves closer to the counter, leaning forward a little to look at the menu Fareeha has, before reaching in her coat pocket and pulling out her wallet. “How much?”
“Um,” Fareeha puts the order in quickly, “that’ll be ten even.”
The woman pulls a two fives out of her wallet and hands them to Fareeha, who takes the bills and tries to ignore the way her skin jolts when their fingers accidentally touch. The woman stuffs a few dollars in their tip jar, the same as she does every day, and moves to sit down at one of the tables. Fareeha goes about making the order and forcing herself to calm down.
She swears she isn’t usually this bad when it comes to the women she finds attractive. Most days, she doesn’t make a fool of herself, and she’d like to think she usually does a pretty good job of hiding that she’s nervous at all. She blames the jitteriness on Jesse’s advice and the fact that talking to the woman was on her mind already. At one point, she almost drops the cappuccino’s mug making the drink, and vehemently ignores the way her cheeks burn when she sees that the woman saw her mistake. Thankfully, she doesn’t laugh or point it out, but it does look like she’s hiding a smile in her hand when she turns away from Fareeha with her elbow on the table and chin in palm.
Normally, Fareeha would leave the order on the counter and call out the number—or name of the customer, if it’s particularly busy—but since it’s only the two of them in the coffee shop, she brings the order out. The woman smiles again and gives a quiet thank you, and Fareeha turns to leave, but…
She turns back around to the woman and starts, “Um,” and winces at her own lack of eloquence.
“Yes?” The woman prompts, not unkindly, although there is that ghost of a smile again like she knows what Fareeha is trying to say and finds the stuttering…amusing? Pathetic? Endearing? It’s hard to tell. Fareeha hopes it’s the last option.
“I, um, don’t actually know your name,” Fareeha says with as much practiced casualness as she can muster considering she didn’t practice nor is anything about her demeanor particularly casual right now. She resists the temptation to fidget again.
The woman takes a small sip of her cappuccino, not bothering to check yet if it’s cool, before answering, “Angela.”
“Angela,” Fareeha repeats with some wonder. The name shouldn’t be as fitting or mystifying as it is, but she finds herself a little star struck. Angela. Of course her name would be something like that. Of course.
“And yours?”
“What?”
“Your name,” Angela clarifies. She’s definitely smiling now, not hiding it anymore, but it’s more playful than anything.
Fareeha’s face burns. She answers with her own name.
“Well, it’s nice to formally meet you, Fareeha. I have to say you make some pretty good coffee,” Angela says. She puts her elbows on the table and leans forward, taking another sip of her cappuccino. The playful glint in her eyes is still there, and it’s what gives Fareeha the nerve to continue talking.
“Is that why you’ve been visiting so frequently the past few weeks? Just for my coffee?”
“There might be an ulterior motive there too, I admit,” Angela says into her drink and, oh, that is definitely passing “playful” territory.
“I see,” Fareeha manages. It’s not the best response, so she scrambles for something better to say. “Have you visited other times? When it’s not my shift?”
“Once or twice,” Angela admits. “Never on purpose.”
“You found a time that works and stuck with it then.”
“Pretty much.” She nudges her omelet around on her plate with a fork, the food still hot. “I wouldn’t mind visiting other times, if you suggested some that work for you.”
Fareeha’s blush had finally calmed down from her earlier blunder, but it comes back when she realizes what exactly Angela is talking about. As if to solidify her status as permanently blushing, Fareeha offers quickly, “What about I see you outside of when I’m working? There’s—no offense to my own place of employment, but there are better restaurants I could take you to.”
Much to Fareeha’s quiet delight, she isn’t the only one caught off guard by this suggestion, and the tips of Angela’s ears turn pink, much pinker than they were from the cold. For a moment, they don’t speak.
“I’d like that,” she says, no teasing, no flirting—it’s only sincere.
She’d like that. She’d like that.
Fareeha cannot currently believe this is happening, but she puts her number in Angela’s phone when it’s handed to her and puts Angela’s number in her own when a simple text comes in moment later. She returns reluctantly to the cash register when another customer eventually enters the shop, interrupting the conversation they’d fallen into about Angela’s experience so far with med school, and Fareeha offers a small smile in goodbye when Angela has to leave ten minutes later. Angela offers her own in return, raising a hand in a wave, and the door’s bell signals her departure.
And if Fareeha spends the rest of the day a little happier than normal—well, that’s her own business.