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Aradia's shift has been over for an hour and a half, but it doesn't look like she'll be leaving the store anytime soon. Partly that's because it's begun to snow in earnest, and in this part of the country where even a dusting of flakes can stir up a city-wide panic, everyone from college students on their way home from class to families on self-guided tours of the historical campus takes shelter where they can find it.
On this side of campus, "where they can find it" means either Bucket of Beans or the cafeteria. Bucket of Beans has better chairs and fewer freshmen, making it the natural choice. The little coffee shop is crowded from wall to Sharpie-graffiti-covered exposed brick wall, and Aradia's manager, Kanaya, will need all the help she can get to manage the influx of customers.
She's grateful to the weather for providing an excuse. The other reason she is staying late is not so altruistic, and last night she spent the better part of her evening washing and re-washing the espresso machine so she could justify not going home.
This time of year, “home” is the fifth-story two-bedroom apartment she shares with the girl who is now her ex-boyfriend's best friend, which is awkward and probably a sign of poor decision-making on her part. It's just that when she started dating Equius, everything in her life became so consumed by his friends and his interests and his needs that it never occurred to her that there was anyone she could be beside Equius's-Girlfriend-Aradia.
Now she’s determined to find that person, thatAradia-Who-Has-Interests-Other-Than-High-Society-And-Shitty-Robotics, and she suddenly wishes she had made better plans. It’s hard to find her new self when the place that is supposed to be her sanctuary is filled with memories of her past. Especially when those memories take the form of someone small, cute, and compulsively driven to sketch comics about Aradia and Equius getting back together. She pins them on walls, the floors, the ceilings, the doors, everywhere but the refrigerator and the stove. Aradia thinks they are maybe even worse than the pictures she drew of them kissing while they were dating. Maybe.
To avoid them, she spends a lot more time than she ever imagined possible cleaning espresso machines and helping Kanaya shop for realistic-looking vampire fangs on the company desktop. It’s getting to the point that she recognizes all of the Bean’s regular customers, even if she remembers them better by the nicknames she gives them than by their actual names. Like This Clown, a bedraggled grad student who always swaggers up to the counter and greets her with, "Hey little mama," as though that is something real people actually say to each other.
"Hold on," she says. With the tip of her tongue sticking out in concentration, she writes the previous customer's name on a small paper cup, "John.” A few careful lines turn the "o" into a startlingly realistic skull. (It's her gift.) She adds the cup to the cluster waiting for Kanaya near the flavored syrups and turns her attention back to the customer.
He's a foot taller and probably a few years older than her, but he looks like he walked out of a Hot Topic catalogue and he smells like he rolled around in a dime bag. His curly hair is caked in baby powder. It sticks out in all directions, despite the fact that it probably hasn't been washed in weeks. He is exactly the sort of person Equius would have forbidden her from associating with, which is almost enough to make her like him.
Almost.
Then he has to go and say something stupid like, "Uh, yo, can I get a couple'a Rockstars and one o' them crunchy thingies?" and she kind of wants to add his (admittedly well-formed) jaw to the collection of definitely-not-human bones on her nightstand.
"You mean a biscotti?" she asks, even though they've gone through this every weekday for what feels like her entire life.
"Yeah," he says, grinning. "You got it, little mama."
"Okay," she says. "We have chocolate and cranberry, but--" her eyes dart to the back of the store, where there are boxes and boxes of soft drinks just waiting to be unloaded, "I'm afraid we're out of Rockstars, sorry."
Aradia generally isn't the type to lie to customers, even if they're rude, but this time she can't help herself. The Bean is the kind of place people come to drink high-quality, house-roasted, ethically-sourced espresso from hand-painted demitasses, not to gorge on corn syrup straight from unrecycled-tin cans. That's why she applied to work here, even though she's the sort of spoiled trust-fund baby who can afford to attend five-year course in anthropology. She liked the atmosphere, and she doesn't like the thought of this unwashed heathen coming in here and mucking that up.
Although she isn't terribly fond of the way he's looking at her, now, either: like her designer combat boots have trampled his filthy stoner dreams.
"Look," she says quickly. "What's your favorite flavor?”
He takes a moment to respond, thoughtfully scratching his head and sending flakes of baby powder flying all over her nice, clean counter. She's painfully aware of the line of disgruntled customers--coffee lovers, all--standing impatiently behind him, but they're just going to have to wait. She's attempting a miracle here.
After a long moment of head scratching, the tall boy answers slowly, "I reckon it's green."
Aradia clears her throat delicately. "Green?" she repeats, certain she misheard.
"Yeah," he agrees, with that grin that seems to indicate he's proud of how well she understands him. It shouldn't make her feel anything, let alone giddy, but it does, and suddenly she's loath to disappoint him.
"Okay, green," she says. "Why don't you take a seat and I'll make you a drink?" Before he can pull out his wallet, she adds, "On me, since we don't have what you want."
"Little mama," he says, "you are the shit." He bumbles over to an inexplicably-empty table near the register and sits there staring off into space, like he's so blazed he's already forgotten where he is.
"Sorry," Aradia says to the next customer. She grabs the largest size of paper cup, doodles a skull with a crazy head of hair in place of a name, and leaves the register unattended as she goes to fill it.
"Green," she mumbles to herself, selecting a canister of real whipped cream from the refrigerator and closing the door behind her. "Green like pot or green like lime--or apple?"
"What?" Kanaya asks over the hiss of the espresso machine.
"Nothing," Aradia answers. It doesn’t really matter. It’s not as though she’s about to taint good coffee with fruit-flavored syrup anyway. "Can you watch the register for a minute?" she asks as an afterthought.
From the corner of her eye, she sees Kanaya seamlessly take over where Aradia left off, soothing the irritated customers with just a few short words. If Aradia has a gift for drawing, cataloguing, and understanding the dead, Kanaya has an equally strong gift for the living, even if she does bury it under countless layers of black clothing and New Age paraphernalia.
"Fruity or herbal?" Aradia asks herself again, staring at the jars of whole coffee beans lined up against the back wall. If it’s fruity, she should go with the Leo roast, with its bright citrus notes, but if it’s herbal, he’d prefer cucumber-sweet Taurus. Most coffee drinkers prefer the first, but she doesn’t even know if he’s ever had a gas station cappuccino. For a moment, she considers giving up and going for the vanilla-scented Cancer beans. Then her inner coffee snob reasserts herself.
No, she decides, if she’s going to do this, she’s going to do it right. So she picks the less-conventional Capricorn, with its notes of garlic and onion, blends it fine, and dumps it into the espresso machine.
She’s tempted to toss out the paper cup and serve him espresso con panna. The thought of his big, dirty hands curled around a tiny floral ceramic cup makes her want to laugh out loud. But she’s never seen him consume fewer than two of those massive energy drinks in a single sitting, and she does not want to disappoint him, so she pours the espresso into the paper cup, thins it with hot water, and tops it with a massive dollop. Maybe next time.
For now, she snags a chocolate biscotti from the display case and brings it to his table with the whipped cream-topped Americano.
"Coffee?" he asks her, dubious.
"It’s good. Promise."
He must trust her, because he lifts the cup to his mouth with so little hesitation that whipped cream gets all over his nose. Startled, he rears back and slams the coffee onto the table, splashing it everywhere. ”It’s hot,” he says, red-tinted eyes wide.
She tries not to giggle. She fails—but he doesn’t seem to mind. He just grins back at her, head tilted slightly to the side, as though determined to participate a joke he doesn’t fully understand. It makes her so giddy she clasps her hands over her mouth and actually has to bite down on one of them to stop laughing.
"You have whipped cream on your nose," she says when she can breathe again.
"Where?"
"Right there."
"Where?"
She reaches out and swipes some of it from the tip of his nose with a finger. ”See?”
The mirth fades from his face. For a long moment, he stares at her very seriously, and she’s afraid she’s done something wrong. Then he shifts slightly in his seat. The grin returns, but slowly, and it’s different this time. Wolfish. Carnal. She whips the whipped cream from her finger onto her pants and shoves her hands into her pockets, blushing.
"Try it again," she urges.
This time he is much more careful. He lifts the cup and presses it slowly to his lips, his pink tongue darting out to taste the cream on top before he opens his mouth fully and takes a drink. She fidgets, rocking back and forth on her heels. He gently returns the cup to the table and studies it.
"It’s PK," he announces at long last, smiling at her in a way that is neither predatory nor proud.
She doesn’t know exactly what that means, but she’s disappointed. ”Dip your biscotti in it,” she suggests.
He does, letting the coffee soak into the hard pastry before taking a bite. When he does, his whole face lights up. ”You,” he says without bothering to swallow first, “are a fuckin’ genius, little mama. I ought to keep you in one of them little bottles.” He makes a vaguely football-like shape with his hands, as though somehow that will his comment make sense.
"I’m glad you like it," she says, giggly again. "You still have whipped cream on your nose, you know."
"Where?"
"Right there."
"Where?"
"I told you—" This time when she reaches forward to show him, he tilts his head, so that instead of touching his nose, she touches his lips. They’re wet and slightly sticky. She recoils, but not before he has a chance to press a brief kiss to the pad of her finger.
"Oh," she says. He’s very friendly.
"Thanks for the coffee." He scans her face with curious intensity. "You got a boy toy?"
She shakes her head a little more forcefully than is probably necessary.
"Cool," he says.
"I’m not really looking for anyone right now," she says, not because she doesn’t like him, but because she does and she thinks he deserves to know. "I’m working through some stuff, you know. I have a lot of issues."
He just grins at her again and shakes his head. ”I like crazy,” he says earnestly, and looking at him, it’s hard to doubt that he’s telling the truth.
"Cool," she says.
"Cool," he agrees.
"Cool."