Archive of Our Own

I left the library with two new books, a dislocated pinky finger, and uplifted spirits.

I’m not really sure why libraries are able to penetrate my façade so effortlessly. Every time I visit, I’m never in a good mood. Scratch that; I’m never in a mood at all. By that time, so early in the morning, my body and mind are so exhausted and depressed from my active nightlife that it’s difficult, if not impossible, for me to return to reality.

Ah, the joys of being a prostitute.

Maybe I decided to take a trip to the public library just because of the shock I had undergone during the late hours of the darkness; it’s hard being surprised, as a male prostitute, but there was something about the guy that just made my head spin. He did a few things that were only borderline terrifying, hence, my confusion at feeling surprised. The experience left me with a painful dislocated pinky.

I left his room in a hurry, and the next thing I knew, it was eight in the morning, and I was hidden deep inside the public library.

You done good, Chase, I told myself, smiling down at my new books. Nothing makes a prostitute pine more than Jane Austen. I’d better smile this time around…last time I ended-up crying and almost suffered another mental breakdown. That was two-years ago—you should be stronger now.

As I stepped-out into the cold, violent winter wind, my stomach began to growl aggressively. I rolled my eyes at it, letting out a sigh.

“You never quit talking, do you?”

My stomach rumbled in response, shaking my lower torso. Despite my irritation, I knew I should probably eat something, since it had been about a day since my last meal. Of course, I could survive longer periods than that, but the last few nights were draining. Had I caught a look at myself in a store window, I’d probably be unrecognizable.

Oh well, I thought, dreading the reality of eating more garbage food as my meal. Things could be worse!

I’m not sure how that logic applies to a three-year prostitute, but for once, I was thankful for my positive attitude.

The weatherman said snow would be falling soon, so I was taking in the beauty of the streets before they were covered by the white devil. Snow makes everything worse for a prostitute. I’m not sure why, but that’s just how things are. I walked down the street, holding my books to my chest with both arms, mostly to protect them from the chilling air, and a little bit because I only had a t-shirt and my crappy zip-up hoodie on. My skinny jeans were a little too tight, a lot too thin, but hey; they made my ass look good, and a good ass attracts customers.

Customers mean money, and money means food. Horrible sense, but when you don’t eat for several days, the sweet ecstasy of food, even something as simple as a cracker, somehow makes everything you suffer through worth it.

Well—nearly worth it.

I’ll try the coffee shop again, I decided, glancing to my left. But make sure you walk on the other side of the road, go down to where the block ends, THEN cross the street and go into the alleyway. People could notice if you went past and turned left—you don’t want that happening again.

You’d think I’d know the game on instinct by now…but there was something off about the coffee shop oddly named Bitter & Bright. The first time I dug through their garbage, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me. Even when I checked, confirming that there was no one in sight, the eeriness—maybe even the guilt—of my method of getting food struck a chord somewhere. I actually felt thankful for the guilt, because it reminded me of my humanity. Long story short, I left the coffee shop alone for a few weeks, only returning on a slow Sunday evening, right before closing time.

I managed to find a bag of moderately-healthy donuts that day, and, as a result, happily filled my tummy and went without eating for three whole days.

I hurried across the cross-walk with my aching knees, looking forward to the bags of deliciously aged rolls I would find in the alleyway of Bitter & Bright. The cutting pre-winter air had been taking a toll on my immune system, so I was eager to find some source of nutrients. In the midst of my attitude reinforcement, I was feeling smiley and confident—both are very unusual in my line of work, and despite those two factors being part of my typical mask, these were genuine. The only time that sincerity came around was when I had good finds at the library.

Another perk of this cheeriness included being so confident that I would be able to play-off digging through the garbage to anyone who caught me.

“What a beautiful day to be jolly!” I giggled to myself, watching as a group of quiet friends made their way into the shop. “It makes for many productive hours.”

After the group disappeared into the shop, I casually leaned my back against the next building, diverting suspicion from the shop owners across the street. People always had to wait where I was, because the crazy antique shop owner was—well—crazy. He was never on time, so I had an alibi.

Once a few minutes passed, during which, the joints in my fingers froze-up, I slipped through the fence opening between the buildings, successfully stepping into the retired-donut paradise.

The alley was narrow, small, with about six tin trashcans lined-up beside the coffee shop; I liked the set-up, though, because they kept an entire stack of extra trash bins in the corner, which made for a good hiding spot. I have to hide quite often, not necessarily from the shop employees, but from creepy people who roam the streets at night. This alleyway always seems peaceful at during that time.

Maybe that’s one of the reasons why I was so drawn to the place.

I carefully set my books down on the steps leading to the back-door; one time I made the mistake of holding onto my books as I dug through the garbage, and, of course, one of them slid into a heap of old frosting and coffee. I must have cried for three-hours that day. Thankfully, I learned my lesson, and since books have now become my only source of relief, I take the risk, and carefully set them on the bottom step of the coffee shop.

The second I moved towards the first garbage can, the handle on the door clicked.

Quicker than a single strike of lightning, I bolted towards the corner of the alley, throwing myself into the small corner, hidden by the stack of trashcans. The heavy door opened crisply, creaking from the cold weather; I couldn’t help but be concerned about my precious books, and hoped whoever had come outside wouldn’t trip on them, spill on them, or take them away.

I waited, unaware that I was holding my breath.

The door hadn’t opened all the way—I knew this, because this wasn’t the first time I had almost been caught. The door was heavy-duty, and with the amount of wind swooping around, it would be even harder for the employee to contain. The whistling continued, but despite the circumstances, I didn’t feel very afraid of what would come next.

A few, long seconds passed, and then, the door closed.

I waited, listening for a sign that someone else was in the alley with me. None of the employees smoked, so I cancelled that option out; after giving my trained ears time to adapt, I came to the conclusion that no one else was outside.

When I peeked around the corner, a large muffin had appeared on the top step.

It might have been dropped, it might have been poisoned, or it might have been unbearably sweet and thus, inedible to my weakened immune system, but I took the golden opportunity without a second thought. A full muffin?! Could it be true?! I thought in joy, carefully snatching the gift up. It was laying on its side, and had a few minor pebbles stuck in the surface, but I brushed them off happily, and thanked God for his generosity.

Once I secure on my prey, I usually take off immediately—but today was different for a number of reasons.

Firstly, I became so astonished by the quality of the banana-nut muffin that I didn’t move a muscle for an entire minute. Secondly, I ended-up biting into the muffin where I was standing because my mouth had started watering so badly I became desperate—I longed to know what the taste was like, what a real, non-dry, pre-garbage muffin tasted like.

I took a huge bite, and was not disappointed.

I wanted to weep at how soft the texture was. I had forgotten how perfect the top of a muffin was; it had been years since my last one, especially of such high superiority. I chewed slowly, savoring the feeling, the immediate fullness of my stomach upon meeting the heavy, delightful goodie. My spirits were lifted even higher as I selfishly devoured the muffin, barely leaving a single crumb in the peeling.

Now this is real satisfaction, I concluded, sighing excitedly, as the wind no longer affected my breathing pattern. Sex is nothing compared to this feeling. Maybe I should tell my customers that. Not that they need any more calories…

Reality hit me, all of a sudden, and I realized that I had been standing outside the door for almost five-minutes; snatching my books, I tossed the muffin peeling into the trashcan over my shoulder and hurriedly made my escape.

Right before I slipped through the opening, it occurred to me that luck—my ancient friend luck—had finally granted me some mercy; how long has it been? I wondered, staring in wonder at the backdoor. How long as it been since I felt lucky? Months? Years? …Well…however long it is…I guess I should take advantage of this day.

That being thought, I smiled down at my books, my full stomach, and slipped out of the alleyway, ready to throw my heart into Jane Austen’s romantic drabbles for hours, before sauntering off to work.

During my readings, I couldn’t help but convince myself that someone had left the muffin there with me in mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A couple days later, I had a feeling I was close to discovering who left me the muffin.

It all started in the late-evening, as I was reading one of my books in an alleyway across the street from the coffee shop. I was exhausted from a long night of work, pissed because one of the customers tried to rip me off, and hungry because I hadn’t managed to locate any edible garbage since finding the muffin days ago. My good mood had only lasted a day, though the mask I wore managed to prevent my mind from wasting time by sleeping the day away, in hopes of the misery wearing-off.

I was sitting in the middle of the alley, leaning against the brick wall while reading Pride and Prejudice. As the weatherman predicted, the night gave us a thin layer of snow, which meant gloomy hours of shivering for me. I had secured a crappy blanket for the day, and was in the middle of taking advantage of it when the bell on the front door of Bitter & Bright jingled loudly.

Glancing-up, I saw one of the main employees step outside, wearing fingerless gloves, a dark blue stocking cap, and a casual, but warm black jacket on. He was also sporting an expressionless face, something you can expect from someone who works with coffee.

I raked my eyes over his body, envious of his warmth. I almost considered going over and flirting with the guy, maybe even get him all riled-up in the backseat of his car so that I could exchange sex for his outfit. The jacket was just so damn warm and so damn cool…

It’s amazing what I consider going through just to look like a regular person. Here I was, cold knees bent to my chest, hiding underneath a thin, patched-up blanket, red-nosed, reading a romance novel under the light of the grey winter skies, conniving a plan to strip this employee of their secret lust, all to secure the entrapment of a certain black jacket.

Aren’t prostitutes creative?

I realized I had been staring too long, and while I told myself I would be willing to sleep with someone to get a warm jacket, I really wouldn’t have gone through with it unless I was at the end of my desperation. Of course, this was probably the worst condition I had been in out of my entire life, but I didn’t really think about it. You can’t think about something like that too often. It ruins you, tears you apart.

As I took one last look at the employee’s blank expression, I realized, with a start, that they were staring right back at me.

We may have been across the street, a good thirty-yards away from each other, but I could tell his eyes were locked on mine. What they wanted, I couldn’t see. What I did know is that right before he turned the corner to head towards the parking lot, his head gave the slightest inclination of a nod, directed towards me.

Surprisingly, I politely nodded back.

The young man turned away, walking towards his car, leaving me baffled for a moment, before my brain warmed-up and realized what the nod most likely meant. I bet he left the muffin, I thought, watching as he started his car and drove out of the lot. So—one of the employees knows me, does he? …I can’t recall ever sleeping with him…he must just be one of those watchful bastards who’s more interested in other people’s lives than his own.

Although I was startled and confused by this revelation, I gave him a silent message of gratitude, and tried to ignore the numbness of my toes by returning to Jane Austen’s masterpiece.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One week later, my upbeat attitude had returned.

After a successful (and moderately “easy”) week of work, I had managed to get ahead in my bank account, securing enough money to reach the halfway point of my goal; I was saving-up for an apartment, but knew that I would need more money than just enough for one month’s rent. With the amount of cash I was rolling-in, I predicted that I would have enough saved for at least five-month’s rent, which wasn’t too bad, especially considering that meant keeping me indoors for the rest of the winter season.

Although the price of this victory was the abuse of my sexuality, I was happy with the outcome, and decided to give myself a little treat by taking a trip to the coffee shop.

As my last appointment had only ended and hour ago, I still smelt like sex and alcohol, the latter of which, my customer had drunk plenty of. The public gym wasn’t open yet, so I decided to just let the winter wind air my body out as I waited for the shop to open. I expected to be waiting a long time, since it was only four in the morning, and the shop opened at six.

When this was proved false, I began to wonder if a positive attitude was key in gaining streaks of luck.

I was waiting by the steps of Bitter & Bright, hanging-out until the closed sign would be switched to open. It was one of the coldest mornings yet, and still, despite the fact that I was only wearing a hoodie and torn-up skinny jeans, I was in a good mood. I was looking forward to having another one of those muffins, and some coffee to go along with it. This time I would pick something a little less rich, since rich foods make me gag.

Thankfully, as a homeless prostitute, your taste buds help you out once in a while. I was able to stomach the banana nut muffin a week earlier because my tongue realized how malnourished and needy my insides were.

Why is it called Bitter & Bright? I wondered, wiping a layer of frost off the railing with my bare fingertips. Things can’t be both bitter and bright, can they? I mean, I’m bitter about everything, and no one would call me bright. Sultry and seductive, maybe, but not bright. Bright means something different entirely. How can someone be bitter and bright at the same time?

It’s probably just a stupid expression, a voice in my head responded. You tend to search for deep meanings much too often, Chace. I don’t think coffee can really be inspirational like that.

Maybe so. But what if—

My thoughts were halted by the appearance of an employee.

I stopped moving, diverting my attention to the same male who had nodded at me on that rare occasion. He was in the middle of walking up the stairs, only managing to put his foot on the very first step. His eyes were brown and somewhat startled, since it was four in the morning on a Tuesday, at the beginning of winter, and here we were, two strangers, standing in front of a coffee shop, staring at each other.

“Um…we’re not open till six.” The employee said quietly, his voice still scratchy from waking-up. I almost didn’t catch his comment, being too intrigued by his appearance.

“I know!” I said, flashing him a smile. “I’m just waiting.”

The employee nodded shortly, unable or unwilling to return my smile, though he was still maintaining a strange, quiet sense of politeness. He lingered for a moment before slowly continuing his walk up the front steps; while he did this, I took the opportunity to give him a once-over, concluding that with his slim build, thin lips, wild dark hair and sexy long legs, I quite possibly maybe-almost wouldn’t mind sleeping with him for his awesome jacket.

I wasn’t expecting him to ask me a question as he fumbled with his keys in front of the door.

“How long have you been out here?” He asked, not looking at me.

I wouldn’t have been so taken aback, had his tone been more casual. If he would have said “Been out here long?” I would have answered right away; but that wasn’t what his voice had implied. His carefully-worded question was asking a deeper, and, to me, quite shocking second question. My earlier suspicions about someone watching me proved correct.

This employee was asking “Have you been waiting out here since your last appointment?”

“Uh—only about twenty-minutes!” I covered-up, using my positive energy to sound playful. “Why are you here so early, Mr. Bitter & Bright?”

The guy turned to me, finally managing to open the door.

“It’s my turn to bake today.”

“You have to be here at four in the morning to bake?” I asked in horror. My shock wasn’t false; waking-up that early just to make food sounded terrible—though…I would have gladly chosen that as my career, versus what I do now. I guess people wake-up at four a.m. for different reasons.

“Mhm.”

I watched blankly as he opened the door, sliding the key back into his pocket. Although I knew the conversation was over, I found my gaze still lingering around his area, unaware that he was still hovering, holding the door open. His next words sent my head spinning a second time.

“Are you coming?” He asked.

My eyes stopped on his, silently stunned by the question.

“…What do you mean?” I replied stupidly.

The employee seemed to break out of his morning-funk, expression suddenly readable with some distant emotion related to concern.

“Well, it is like—“ He leaned over, reading the thermometer on the door. “Fifteen degrees out. I can’t let a loyal customer stand out here for two-hours.”

I wasn’t sure if the last part was reference to my everyday garbage-scavenger hunts, but the thought escaped my mind last second as I grinned, hurrying inside the coffee shop behind the generous employee.

Man, was it warm inside. The heat wasn’t even on yet, and I already felt as if I had entered a sauna. In hopes of saving some of this warmth for later, I kept my hoodie on, absentmindedly waiting around while taking-in the scene ahead.

The shop had much more lounging area than I originally thought, based on my occasional glances through the window as I strolled by on my daily walk. It looked more like a restaurant than a coffee house. There were booths everywhere, even right next to the opening of the bakery in the back room. It was much cozier than my alleyways. I silently wondered if I could get by with reading in here, instead of freezing my ass off in the streets, waiting and dreading for the night to come. Maybe days spent in here would make life more bearable.

Or...maybe...days spent in here would make the nights that much worse.

“You can sit right here,” He said, catching my attention. His hand motioned to the booth nearest to the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a second.”

The man disappeared behind the doors, and I was left alone, in the silence of the coffee shop. I sat down where he told me to, looking at all the low-key decorations of the place; there were lots of owls drinking coffee, lots of blues, lots of purples, all the colors and shapes that seemed to represent coffee perfectly.

And also, I thought, they seem to represent this mysterious employee perfectly.

A couple minutes later, as my hands began to circulate blood again, the baker exited the backroom, holding two teacups, and a pitcher of fresh coffee.

He set one of the cups down in front of me and asked another startling question.

“What’s your name?”

“Chace,” I answered, grinning myself out of shock. “But you can call me Chrissy, if you’re into that sort of thing and don’t want yourself to know that you like men.”

Judging on his expression, I guessed he wasn’t into that sort of thing, and eagerly rebounded the question.

“What’s yours, mysterious baker boy?”

“Edmund.” He said shortly, not breaking eye-contact.

“Like from Narnia?” I asked before I could stop myself.

The baker named Edmund nodded, his eyes going a little wider.

“My older brother’s name is Peter.”

“Are you shitting me?!”

Edmund shook his head, his expression relaxing as I stared in amazement. Am I dreaming? I wondered. Did I die in that alleyway and go to heaven? Is Narnia in heaven? Why is Edmund giving me coffee?

As I sat there, excited and practically buzzing in my seat, Edmund disappeared into the bakery again. I poured myself some coffee and chugged it down, trying to wake myself up. When nothing changed, I pinched the skin on my hands—but it was no use. I was perfectly awake, perfectly aware of what was happening.

So why did I feel like this was too pleasant to be my reality?

Imagine the shock my humanity felt when Edmund returned, seting a round, flakey and fresh, icing-drizzled cinnamon roll in front of me on a little plate.

Just as my eyes started bulging out of their sockets, I secretly wondered if it was possible to be turned-on by food; Edmund sat down across from me and poured himself some coffee, dumping several packs of sugar in it, instead of just making a fancy latte from one of the machines.

“How old are you?” He asked quietly, glancing up at me.

It took me a long time to respond. My mouth hung open uselessly, trying to form words that made sense.

“I’m—twenty-three,” I said breathlessly. The sweet smell from that damn cinnamon roll was driving me crazy, as was the kindness from this coffee shop stranger. “How…how old are you?”

“Twenty.”

Sensing my stare, Edmund focused on his coffee, using a small container of creamer as his distraction. I managed to stop creeping him out by forcing my gaze downward, so that I was pining over the delicious roll in front of me. Don’t be so rude, Chace, I told myself. There is such thing as kindness in the world. You just never get to see it because you chose such a degrading profession. He’s probably expecting politeness in return, so man-up a little.

Well, my “manning-up” option only included taking little bites from the cinnamon roll (which I almost choked on after experiencing a surge of pleasure so startling I had to bite my tongue in order to remember that I wasn’t at work, that I didn’t need to be afraid of the feeling), so the actual act of politeness had to be carried-on by Edmund, who is used to casual conversations such as these.

“Does it taste okay?”

“Mmmmm…it’s amazing. Did you actually make this?”

Edmund nodded, and I kicked myself for sounding so surprised, but he didn’t seem to be insulted. I made-up for it by asking another question.

“Do tell, Edmund; how did you became to be such a proficient baker?”

“I guess I’ve always been good at it,” He shrugged, talking in a hushed, easy tone as he sat pressed against the back of the booth. “Then my brother asked if I wanted to open a shop, so…this is what I do now.”

I smiled in response, amused by his humbleness, and how his sentences rolled even faster when he was talking about himself.

“Very impressive. It’s been a long time since I’ve had such good food.”

Edmund’s eyes quickly shot up to meet mine, but were back down in an instant. That short second was enough for a silent understanding to form between us.

He knew very well about my garbage escapades.

Despite this reveal, I kept the conversation going, which was strange, considering I’ve hardly had a conversation that wasn’t about sex preferences in three-years. It was intriguing, how easily I adapted to his way of speaking, to how normal this topic was compared to my every-day life.

“So what’s the system you have with your brother Peter? You open the store, lure the customers in with promises of luxurious Turkish delight, then let Peter chop their bodies up and stuff the pieces into mince pies while running a barber shop in the back?” I teased playfully.

Edmund’s eyes widened for a second, catching all the references, then cleared his throat and shook his head.

“Not exactly…” He said slowly. “We’re supposed to take turns baking—I do it Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Sunday, since I’m better at it, and he’s supposed to do it the other days; it’s been like that since we started, up until recently…we both work at the register, too.”

“And when you say ‘up until recently,’ you mean…”

Edmund almost showed emotion this time, giving a huff as a slight shadow crossed over his light brown eyes.

“Up until he started cheating on his girlfriend and asked me to do all the baking so he can successfully live his lie.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of Edmund staring blankly at Peter as he explains the predicament to him.

“What’d you say to him?!” I asked excitedly.

“I said I would do it,” He shrugged. “Then the next morning, I went into his room, took a picture of him in bed with the other girl, sent it to his girlfriend, then sprinted to the coffee house to get to work.”

I let out a loud yelp of laughter before covering my mouth, bent over from the hilarious agony of the situation. As I tried to recover, I heard a small laugh come from Edmund’s lips, but when I tried to look, it was too late; though, the ghost of a smile still remained, and I found myself immediately calming at the sight of it.

Maybe he’s the reason why they added the ‘Bright’ part.

“Well,” I giggled, stomach aching from the laughter. “That’s one way to split a business in half. I’m assuming he wasn’t successful in banishing you from the bakery?”

“Nope,” Edmund said, returning to his quiet voice. “He sent me some angry texts, but I ignored them…he moved out of our apartment and hasn’t neglected his duties as a baker since. I guess it all worked out in the end.”

“I have to hand it to you, Edmund,” I grinned, raising my cup of coffee to him. “I wouldn’t expect an act so ruthlessly honest from you. Congratulations on your victory.”

He almost smiled again as I drank the last of my coffee. When I started to pour another cup, I was startled to see his expression change to one of confusion; his eyebrows scrunched together as I brought the teacup to my lips again.

“Did you just…you…you’re going to drink it just like that?” Edmund questioned, eyeing the coffee as if it greatly offended him.

“Of course!” I said, dipping a piece of the cinnamon roll into the black liquid. “I like it this way. It’s stronger, convinces me that I’m more awake than I really am.”

Edmund didn’t miss a beat, transferring his gaze from the coffee to my eyes.

“That’s really disgusting.”

My mouth dropped open, but I quickly recovered with an insult of my own.

“Says you, Mr. Sugar Rush! How can you stand all of that sweetness?! You’re the one that’s disgusting!”

“Why would you want to drink something that’s just as dry and plain as the bean it came from?” Edmund asked, his tone still quiet, but a little more emotional. “You’re just like my brother. He refuses to drink coffee unless it has no flavor what-so-ever.”

“I take offense to that—I may like my coffee dull, but if I cheated on my girlfriend, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to do it while my annoyingly-flavorful little brother’s in the next room.”

I know Edmund smiled at that, but he covered it up with his cup, stopping me from seeing it.

I gave another laugh, and we fell into a comfortable silence, reflecting on the entertaining conversation. When’s the last time I talked to a normal person? I wondered, taking-in more of Edmund’s physical appearance from behind my cup. For the first time in a long time, I’m talking to someone about their life. I like it a lot, but…I’m starting to feel that stomach-churning dread again. I’m going to have to go outside soon…going outside means going to work, trying to keep warm, hiding my belongings in the whorehouse, forgetting this conversation all together…

Edmund returned from the kitchen, where he was baking more rolls and donuts, and asked me another question as he sat down.

“What are you reading?”

I followed his eyes, looking at the stack of books next to me on the table. I almost forgot I had them. There were so many good things going on around me it was hard to remember why I came here in the first place.

With that single question, we managed to fill the next hour-and-a-half with non-stop conversation about books we’ve read, books we loved, books we disliked, etc. etc. When I reminded him that it was near opening time, Edmund’s eyes flickered with panic, watching me as I went to reach into my hoodie pocket.

“It’s only 5:58.” He said suddenly, his voice the most strained I’d heard it.

I sat there in silence, not knowing what he was getting at. Edmund stood-up from his spot, becoming more casual as he played with the apron strings behind his back.

“We’re technically not open…” He hinted further, finally getting me to understand. “You—you can just pay me back in another way.”

My blood ran cold at his last sentence; I couldn’t have moved my arm if I wanted to. Maybe Edmund didn’t understand what that usually meant for me, what those words hinted at, silently demanded from me; but even if he didn’t know that, even if he wasn’t thinking that way, even if he didn’t even know it was possible to think that way, it didn’t stop me from forcing down the vomit rising in my throat.

After a moment of studying my shocked expression, he seemed to understand the effect of his words.

“N-No!” He cried stressfully, expression faltering to regret and desperation as he stiffened. “I-I didn’t mean like that, not at all! I just meant that you don’t have to pay now, you can just owe me later, or something…I…I wasn’t implying that—“

I let him ramble off his explanation, trying hard to hide the relief I felt.

“Oh my gosh,” Edmund hissed stressfully, hiding his face in shame. “I can’t believe I said—“

“You’re much too hard on yourself, dear Edmund.” I said, standing-up with a smile. “It takes a lot more than an implication to insult me.”

Before he could respond, a timer went off in the bakery, making us glance over. We looked back at each other, both seeming to finally notice the stress marks underneath the other’s eyes. His were light with morning fatigue, and were sure to disappear once the day drug-on. I didn’t want to know what description he gave mine. As a prostitute, appearance and skill is everything; although I’ve managed to keep my shame at a bearable level, I couldn’t help but feel insecure around someone so put-together, someone with such a nice purpose.

I shook this feeling off, giving him a grin before reaching for his nearly-empty coffee cup, slyly flicking a few dollars-worth of tip money onto the table, behind the pitcher.

“Absolutely disgusting,” I said, shaking my head at the taste of the sweetened coffee, grabbing my books from off the table. “I’ll be seeing you later, Bakery Boy. And next time, we’ll talk about ways to uproot Peter from the family business.”

I laughed at Edmund’s expression and exited the coffee shop called Bitter & Bright, aware of his last comment chasing after me through the bitter winter wind.

“Stay safe.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Unfortunately, during the next few days, I found myself unable to heed to Edmund’s suggestion.

I was right about the bad feeling in my stomach. It seemed like the moment I returned to reality, back into the cold, sharp winter crevasse, everything pretty much started to fall apart. The guy who ran the whorehouse was at my throat for something or other, one of the sickest customers I’ve ever had requested me for an entire night, the cheap apartments I had been looking at were entirely booked, and, worst of all, I was unable to find enough time or strength to enter the coffee shop again.

Reading books only worsened my state of mind. Thinking about coffee only made me sicker. I was coming down with something, and my hoodie did practically nothing to protect me from the snow. Yes, it had started snowing consistently now. The bastard weatherman was right for the first time this season, and of course, he had to be right about the damn snow.

I thought about all these miserable things as I was half-way through my appointment with the smutty customer.

One of the things I’m thankful for (as a prostitute, and sometimes as my regular self) is youth; a lot of the time, when I get a younger customer, I’m happy, because it makes pretending that I’m just a young college party animal who likes to get drunk and sleep with people a lot easier that way. This particular young man, however, is an exception to my gratitude.

Mostly, he likes to humiliate and debase me to the point of silence. He doesn’t come around often, being a law student and all, but when he does, I always find myself trying to get drunk enough to the point where I won’t be able to feel anything.

It doesn’t work, and I have difficulty understanding how drinking can appeal to people when its purpose never ceases to fail.

The absolute worst part of my week came when the customer was in the middle of degrading me; he bit my ear harshly, probably drawing blood, and laughed words all too familiar to me:

“You can pay me back for that another day, bitch.”

His hand moved from my chest to my throat, constricting around it tighter and tighter until black spotted my vision. He might have let go then, but I can’t remember clearly; between the alcohol and the agonizing pain my hips, it’s all very fuzzy. You’d think I’d be thankful for that fact, but it doesn’t really matter, because what you can’t see, you can always feel.

He only paid me half of what he owed. Before he left, leaving me limp on the bed, he said he was saving the rest for next time, when I would return the favor.

The door slammed shut, and the world became quiet, dulled behind the ringing noise in my ears.

It was then that I tried to remember what Edmund’s smile was like, but the memory made me even more upset, because I had never seen Edmund smile before. I became sickened with myself when the words of the customer combined with the words of the bakery boy from days earlier; it suddenly felt as if he was beneath me instead of the lawyer, spitting fowl insults into my face while trying to prove himself right by forcing me to agree as reluctant tears fell down my cheeks.

I must have forced myself to throw-up at least seven times that night; the problem was that I hadn’t had anything to throw-up for a few days, the cinnamon roll being the last food to make it into my stomach. I didn’t want to get rid of that evidence. I wanted to keep it with me forever, I wanted to be thinking about it constantly—but…in my line of work…thinking about something that pure would be sinful.

After waking-up from being passed-out on the bathroom floor, I caught sight of the clock: it was four in the morning.

I decided then, that if my legs were going to permanently give-out after this night, and were unable to carry my weight to heaven, the last place I wanted to be was a coffee shop called Bitter & Sweet.

There was no time for a façade—I probably couldn’t have pulled one off even if I wanted too...not after the dreadful nights I had. I needed to get downtown as quickly and as silently as possible, which seemed impossible, judging on how separated my hips were, making my thighs and knees practically useless. My face was numb, if not from the word-beating it took, then from the grimy, thick air of the whorehouse, which was so unlike the warmth of the coffee house I almost wept. The anguish I was feeling did not have to form an actual expression on my face; the emotion succeeded in representing itself without having to give any effort.

I like to think that almost every prostitute starts out as hesitant, human…but as time goes along, they lose their hope, their flicker of brightness that keeps them going. After that brightness gives-way, they become human no longer, but rather, a sick, fake character in a game of underground scum.

When I thought about what type of character I would look like from a reader’s point of view, I gave a dry, unamused laugh.

Chace (also known as “Chrissy”) is a homeless male prostitute in the book The Myth of Bitterness. He is a minor character who gets by in life by selling his body to wealthy males looking for a good time. Despite being one of the first individuals the reader meets, his time in the novel is short, unmentionable, though readers have described him as being somewhat-important, due to his bitter rants about his hideous lifestyle, which were key in revealing the heroism of the main character. Little is known about what became of Chace, as he is not mentioned after Chapter One.

So, after pulling-on my tattered hoodie, ripped skinny jeans, and bloodied sneakers, I wandered deeper into the whorehouse, slipped my precious books out from their hiding spot, tucked the small wad of bills into one of my pockets and stumbled out into the streets, hoping the image of Edmund the Baker looking in my direction would be enough to get me to where I desperately needed to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I should have been there by five.

Only after I forced my eyes to stop fluttering shut and rolling to the back of my head did I look around and realize I was standing in the alleyway between the antique shop and Bitter & Bright.

To be quite honest with you, I’m not sure how I made it.

The snow had fallen heavily while I was occupied in the whorehouse, and the freezing conditions didn’t help the situation. Not only were my hips sore and urgently in-need of rest, but now, they were also aching in pain, grinding together and shifting awkwardly with every struggling step. I tried to walk with my legs as close together as possible, hoping to relieve some of the tension, but that seemed to make things worse.

The rest of my bones followed the example of my hips, and my skin, even the parts that were covered by my hoodie and jeans, prickled by sharp snowflakes and cutting wind, began to slow my pace. It must have taken me an hour to drag my body to the halfway point. The faster I tried to go, the more worn-down I became; and of course, there was also the frightening idea that someone would confront me, or try to take advantage of my fragile state…it was technically still night, after all, in the early hours of the dark season of winter. I forced myself to borrow a bit of my “pain grasping” energy and use it for making everything about me seem smaller.

At that time, I already felt less of a human being; I wasn’t sure how much smaller I could get.

These distressing physical sensations caused the collapse of my mental state.

What am I doing? I thought blankly, helplessly, taking a look at my shivering form as I stood, frozen in place, beside the coffee shop. It was like my memories were lost, buried in the snow underneath my shoes. I had been focused on too many things all at once. Where am I? …Why am I even here? Why can’t I move anymore? …What’s my name again?

Who am I?

Gradually…my mind came to a yield sign. My neck bone creaked as I looked upwards, away from myself; a few snowflakes were drifting down from the dark clouds, falling into my line of view. Everything was suddenly…very quiet. The wind wasn’t as loud as usual, whispering an occasional word here and there. Maybe it had been that way all along, but I was too delusional to notice.

My eyes locked-in on the siding of the shop. It was light blue, lightened even further by the color of the snow, the dreariness of the sky, and yet…I didn’t find it sad. Not at all. My mind wasn’t really working, too spent and weakened to affect me any longer. I watched the building silently, hardly a breath escaping my lips; it felt like I was the only person in the entire world, alive only in my mind, for a split moment. I didn’t know why I was standing there, but I didn’t ask. I didn’t know why the building was blue, but I didn’t ask.

Not a sound reached my tender, beat-red ears. I didn’t form a single coherent thought. Nothing was happening. I wasn’t waiting for anything, or anyone.

I was just there…quietly existing.

The loud clamor of smashing bells sent a jolt through my body. Someone must have let the front door slam shut. Either way, the pain returned to my body, and when I blinked, it occurred to me that I had made it to the place where I wanted to be.

Bitter & Bright, I thought vaguely. My knees began to tremble from the weight I was putting on them. What a nice place…I wonder if I’ll die bitter, or bright? I guess I’ll never know…it’s…getting too cold to tell anyway…

Suffering too heavily to think about anything else, I let myself fall to my knees; muscles trembling, I began to crawl through the snow, towards the garbage cans, hoping that when I made it, I wouldn’t be in so much pain.

Snow was everywhere; up my sleeves, in my pants, in the holes of my shoes, on my chin, in my hair…my face was numb, yet I felt every brush of coldness, every ache of every bone in my body. When I finally managed to sit myself up against the wall, I was losing consciousness, and not because I told myself to shut-off my emotions. My will was at an all-time low. It was just too tired, too beaten-up…I couldn’t put it through anymore stress. It had reached its final limit.

Everything was coming to a slow close…and I was ready.

Before I let myself drift into the endless abyss of sleep, my ears faintly caught the sound of the back door being opened.

This time, it opened all the way.

There was silence, the same silence as before, for a long, curious moment; then, a strange, yet familiar voice echoed through the alley.

“Chace?” It asked softly. “Chace? …Are you out here?”

The wheels in my mind turned a little, creaking the whole way, trying to get me to remember who that voice belonged to as the silence waited for a response. The wind whistled, but other than that, nothing. I didn’t know who was supposed to be speaking.

Hesitant crunching noises could be heard, merging with the stillness. Is someone here? I wondered, vision fogged over as my eyes, barely open, stared ahead, into the opposite corner of the alleyway. Did I walk into someone else’s territory? Are they coming towards me, or going away?

“Chace?”

The voice was closer now, and even softer than before. The crunching noises too, were close, but quiet. Both were coming from behind the trashcans, and as I struggled to process the information, trying to connect the dots, someone peeked their head around the corner and spotted me.

Edmund, I thought. My sweet little baker-boy Edmund.

After this realization, all the stress from my shoulders released itself as I let out a lazy, peaceful sigh. I was finally content. I had made it to my destination. Now there was nothing left but—

“Chace,” Edmund said again. His voice was so different from its usual tone that I had to open my eyes again, just to see what caused this interference. He wasn’t in the spot where my eyes had last spotted him; instead, I slowly comprehended that he was, in fact, right next to me.

One of his hands grabbed my wrist, and the skin began to burn.

“Edmund!” I said in a hushed, fatigued cheer that I could barely register with my own ears. “I returned my books to the library…”

I glanced over at him as he inspected me; he paused for a moment, realizing I said something. Edmund thought for a second, then nodded at me firmly. His expression was odd.

“That’s good, that’s good…they charge you if you don’t return them on time, ya know.”

“Mhm…that’s why I…I returned them,” I huffed, losing all my breath.

Edmund’s arm was wrapped around my back, and his other hand still held onto my wrist. He tried pulling me to my feet, but immediately set me back down after hearing my pained yelp. My tailbone was throbbing now, along with my hips, which seemed to move further and further away from each other with each passing second.

Everything went hazy. Once again, all I could feel was the pain, and all I could do was try to block it out as much as humanly possible. I heard Edmund swear softly (which I didn’t know was possible), and then both of his warm hands were holding my face. I wanted him to do that forever; his skin was just so warm…

“Chace; I’m going to carry you, okay? But you have to stay awake, you can’t fall asleep, alright?”

“But…it…hurts,” I forced out, squirming in discomfort.

“I know…but…it won’t hurt in a while, okay? We’ll go someplace warm, and I’ll make you coffee again, alright? Does that sound good?” Edmund offered. My cheeks were gaining some feeling again; I hardly heard what he said, aside from the mention of coffee.

I opened my eyes again, delighted over the fact that I wasn’t hallucinating his presence.

“No…no sugar.”

Edmund almost smiled and shook his head.

“No sugar, I promise.”

I tried to grin at that, but my lips were still frozen. I don’t think I would have minded if Edmund solved that problem, too. In fact, it would have been kind of nice, being kissed for once.

Some minutes later, I realized I was now lying not in a snowy alleyway, but in the backseat of a heated car. A door shut, a seatbelt buckled, and we began to move.

“…Warm?” I whispered to myself, unaware of how I was still able to speak. A few of my fingers twitched against the fabric, and I watched them, in disbelief, as they grazed over the soft surface of the seat. “Mm…war…m…”

“We’re almost there, Chace.” Edmund’s voice said to me. “Almost there, just hold on.”

“Yeah…almost…home…” I echoed distantly.

“Yeah,” He agreed. “Almost home.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time Edmund was carrying me into his apartment, I had regained most of my senses.

Everything still hurt, and I still found myself unable to walk properly, but thankfully my head got back in the game, and I was able to start getting a grip on the situation. Although I felt relieved beyond words to be in such good company, another part of my instincts was reacting negatively to the situation.

Edmund opened the door while simultaneously carrying me in his arms. It couldn’t have been that difficult, I guess…I only eat a handful of times a week. He continued to carry me as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the two-bedroom apartment, and ended-up gently setting me down on his couch in the living room.

My hips weren’t looking forward to what was coming, and they screamed for me to prevent it.

Edmund went and shut the door as I pondered the situation, wondering what I should do. The couch was damn comfy, but I had always done it in the bed at the whorehouse, never at the customer’s house. When did I agree to this anyway? I asked myself, mind swirling to catch-up as Edmund glanced at me while unfolding a blanket.

“Better?” He asked quickly, throwing the soft cotton over my body. It was thin, but I didn’t expect such a nice gesture.

“Yes—thank you.”

A nod only resulted in my neck aching again, which triggered the rest of my injuries. I tried not to grimace, because that could only end in the customer taking advantage of my pain tolerance. Edmund, thank goodness, noticed immediately, but only reacted by hurrying away into the kitchen. I used that time to try and think clearly, attempting to remember what my usual façade looked like.

I think…I think I have to be cool, collected, smooth, I thought, skin trembling at the sudden change in temperature. Edmund will notice a few things, sure…I can’t seem to stop myself from shivering, although I can’t even feel it happening…but I can stop other things. Yeah. If I take initiative and go after him first, he might not notice the shakiness, the cold-sweat, the glaze that’s probably over my eyes…

As Edmund rushed back into the room, he interrupted me from sitting-up and smiling at him.

“Wait wait wait,” He hushed gently, setting down the cup to lightly grab onto my shoulders. My expression broke easily as I looked up at him in shock. The image was still blurry, and I prayed that I would be able to stay conscious. “You shouldn’t sit-up. I’m going to get you some more blankets in a minute, okay?”

Tempting, I wouldn’t let myself be fazed by the deception.

“That’s okay…”

It was supposed to sound seductive, but to my frustration, it came out as a weak whisper. I grabbed onto Edmund’s forearm as he went to stand-up, hoping I could try again before he left. I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

Edmund’s brown eyes locked with mine, and I leaned closer to his face.

“We can stay warm a different way…” I teased, lowering my voice. “If you’re up for it, baker boy…”

By the time I said the last syllable, Edmund was tucking my arm back underneath the blanket and reaching for the cup behind him.

“Drink this a little at a time, alright?” He suggested quietly, pressing my head forward so I could swallow without choking. “It’ll help you get warm.”

I did as he said, stuck in a state of shock as I sipped the black liquid from the hot mug. It took me a second, but I realized what the drink was after feeling a sense of familiarity. With the state I was in, this feeling was more than welcomed. Edmund was watching me carefully, with a bit of agitation in his eyes as he leaned the cup back.

“It’s…bitter.” I whispered, looking at him in confusion.

“Yeah. You like it bitter, remember?” Edmund reminded me.

I stared at him in wonder, then watched as he set the cup down and exited the room.

I guess it’s safe to say not all of my sense had returned quite yet.

Once I realized that, I suddenly remembered how I came to know Edmund the Baker. I recalled the stories about his brother, how he had left the muffin for me on the stairs, how he had invited me inside that one morning, how we had talked for two-hours, how we talked about my books, Edmund’s life, basically covering every topic except sex. That particular realization was what set me at peace. I sunk into the couch, letting out a long, trembling breath I didn’t know I was holding; Edmund returned to the room, holding a heap of blankets, mittens, a stocking cap, wool socks, a pillow, and some type of ice pack.

“Don’t fall asleep yet, okay?” He repeated, hurriedly covering me in layers. As I tried to speak, the words stuck in my throat, he managed to get the mittens onto my hands, the pillow underneath my head, the other blankets over my body, and the stocking cap over my ears. He seemed to be hesitating about something when I was finally able to talk.

“I’m…I’m still dirty…” I informed him. Despite my joy over becoming warm, it suddenly made me remember that I had been unable to claim a shower for three days.

“You can shower after you sleep and eat something, alright?” Edmund promised. His hands were breaking one of the ice packs, but then, one of them moved to touch my head. “Can you tell me what hurts the most, Chace?”

“My hips,” I answered quickly, answer already prepared.

“Oh,” Edmund accidently mumbled out-loud. There was silence for a second, and I finally turned my attention from all the fabrics to his face. He looked concerned, biting his lip nervously. The ice pack was still in his hands. “Right. I should…probably…take those off,” He continued quietly. “They’re soaking wet...I…should…probably…”

“Don’t,” I started desperately, anxious about the ice packs. “Don’t put those on me—please.”

Edmund looked from me to where I was pointing (it’s hard to point with mittens on), understanding my sudden fear.

“These are hot packs,” He said. “See?”

I could have died and went to heaven when Edmund pressed one of the hot packs to my cheek. My hands immediately went up to secure it, which made him chuckle adorably.

“I know, I know…they’re really warm, but I was going to put them on your hips first, since those hurt the most. I’m gunna have to slide your pants off to do that; is that okay with you?”

“No…” I shook my head limply. “I don’t want you to, but if…you have to…that’s fine…”

“Don’t worry,” Edmund said, pushing the blankets back. “I don’t like guys like that.”

“Huh,” I scoffed weakly. “Yeah…neither do I.”

Edmund froze at that comment, shooting me a glance. I fluttered my eyes closed and tried not to think about it. The baker continued with his movements below, setting the hot pack onto my left hip. The right ached something fierce, but I ignored it, because Edmund had started speaking again. He was speaking with more sincerity than I had ever heard before.

“Chace,” He said softly, knowingly. “You’re very much human, and very much still alive. I guess…you don’t know that this title means, despite your bitterness…you’re still incredibly bright.”

I was starting to slip-away again, soothed by Edmund’s words. There was a moment of silence, which I took to gather my own response.

“Edmund,” I whispered, eyes close to shutting. “How do you know I won’t steal from you?”

I thought I had already fallen asleep, because I could have sworn the boy in front of me was smiling as he answered, his fingers grazing across my forehead.

“All I have are recipes.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometime during the day, I woke-up feeling angry.

I knew it was the same day because I didn’t feel any better. My hips still hurt like hell, my fingers ached, my nose was cold, and my head felt like I was overheating.

“Edmund,” I mumbled. “Edmund…”

“Right here,” He said. A figure of some sorts leaned down in front of the coffee table, touching a bare spot of my wrist. There was a heavy…thing around my shoulders. It was much too warm to be my hoodie.

“I hate my dad.”

Yeah…I was still out of it.

“He was so mean to me,” I rambled in a low, grumpy, yet incredibly sad tone. “He hit me a lot, for no reason at all…and…and he always told me I needed to work more, like he did when he was young. He said I was wasting time, that…that there was no need to rest. He said I was wasting time…”

I trailed-off, my mouth dry.

“You know…this is all his fault. It is, Edmund…it’s his fault for drawing attention to us, the bastard…it’s his fault that I’m like this. It’s his fault that I—that I have to open my legs and widen my hips for whoever wants to pay for it…it’s all…his fault. I was a pretty nice kid, for a while…if you can believe that, Edmund…do you…” I turned my head towards him, though my eyes were closed. “Do you believe me?”

Edmund didn’t answer my question, but his voice came through in a gliding motion, like someone speaking in one of my sweetest dreams. It was comforting to hear. I’m not sure what made my anger ease more; the words, or the person speaking them.

“And yet,” He whispered. “You still manage to be bright.”

My spirit smiled at that comment; I didn’t know if Edmund kept referring to my intelligence of books, or if he was simply calling me bright, like an enigma or something, but as I cuddled myself further into the couch, I decided I didn’t care.

If Edmund thought I was bright…well—who am I not to believe him?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A clatter of some sorts woke me up.

I laid there for a moment, trying to distinguish where the sound was coming from; when it ceased to repeat itself, I let my eyelids flutter open. The ceiling was dim, apparently the only light source coming from a lamp in the corner, behind the couch. It was just enough for my eyes to adapt quickly, though I continued to lay there, motionless, for quite some time.

Someone’s padded feet stopped right before hitting the carpet. I peered over, recognizing Edmund’s messy mop of hair.

“You’re awake!” He noted softly, rushing over and setting a cup of coffee on the table as he sat on the empty edge of the couch. His expression was still concerned, but not as worried as I remembered. “You look a lot better.”

“I feel a lot better,” I mumbled, shifting on the couch so that I was lying on my side, back pressed comfortably against the cushions. “How long did I sleep?”

“It’s still Friday…about nine-thirty right now. You got a good fifteen hours in.” Edmund said. I could feel his eyes watching mine, but I was too groggy to be able to handle returning it. “I did take your pants off, just in case you were worried or something…”

I gave a breath of laughter, forcing myself to sit-up a little higher to look at my savior properly.

“And what’d you do that for, dear Edmund?”

I was amused to see his expression turn to one of surprise and slight-panic. His tone remained the same as ever, calm, collected, with a touch of speed.

“Well I—your jeans were soaking wet, so the blankets couldn’t really do anything to get your legs warm, so I took them off and threw them in the drier. But when your legs were still cold after about fifteen-minutes, I had to start rubbing them a little, and then they circulated blood again, but after you shower I have some sweatpants you can put on.”

He hasn’t changed, I thought, trying not to smile. He takes a dying prostitute into his home and he hasn’t changed a bit.

“And that’s all you did?”

Edmund met my eyes and blinked once.

“Yes.”

“Didn’t sneak a peek or anything?”

“No.”

“Didn’t accidently touch anything you weren’t supposed to?”

“No.”

“Didn’t give into my seductive comments from earlier?”

“No.”

“Did run your hands up and down my legs?”

Edmund opened his mouth, then shut it again, the new question confusing him.

“Um…yes?”

“I’m just teasing you, Edmund,” I laughed weakly, but it managed to reach my eyes. That was a good sign. “Am I still in critical condition, or did I manage to bounce back?”

“Mm…well, you’re not dying of hypothermia anymore.” He informed me, reaching out to feel my forehead. If I wasn’t awake before, I definitely was now. “Your fever is gone, but…I’m not really sure what to do about your—other injuries.”

Edmund may have casually added the last portion of that sentence, but I knew what he meant well enough. I suddenly remembered how he had carried me to his car as I whimpered, trying not to agitate my hips further. Speaking of hips, mine still hurt, but not as badly as before.

I shifted the blanket down to investigate some of the injuries I had previously failed to recognize. There were large bruises on the tops of my knees, probably from when I let myself fall into the snow, along with a few raw spots of skin that were probably from the ice frozen to the frays of my jeans. The thing I had expected to see most of was not there.

That means he…he…

“Edmund,” I said shakily, looking over at him with wide-eyes. “Did you wipe me down?”

“Yeah,” He nodded casually. “With hot water. You said you were dirty, and I thought it might help keep your legs warm. But you can still shower in a bit, after you eat.”

“I—I—I’m sorry,” I replied hurriedly. I felt the most vulnerable I had been since my last appointment. Suddenly, everything seemed to be focused on me and my disgusting self. “Y-You shouldn’t have—“

I couldn’t even bring myself to say it while looking at Edmund. It was just too horrible. How could I think about that while I was in the same room as him, while I was looking right at him?

“You shouldn’t have to either.” Edmund whispered.

We glanced over at each other silently. The apartment noise ceased, and I found myself trying to burrow into the couch further, to avoid being seen and judged.

“So, um—“ I cleared my throat, playing with the sleeve of the jacket over my hoodie. “I know you’ve shown me enough kindness already, but um…what kind of food do you have here?”

The corners of Edmund’s lips creeped upwards.

“I’ll cook-up something. You should drink your coffee, before it gets cold.”

I couldn’t help but sigh in relief as he left the living room, leaving me alone to sulk. Who would’ve thought? I wondered, running my finger along the jacket sleeve. I eat garbage donuts from Bitter & Bright for months on end, and now, I’m in the apartment of the co-owner, drinking coffee and waiting for him to cook me dinner. What kind of character development is this? Should I be waiting for some sick plot twist?

As I let out another deep breath, my memory recognized something about the jacket I was wearing; it was black, warm, cool, and slick as hell. Wait a second…haven’t I seen someone wear this bef—

“Here’s your appetizer.”

Edmund set down a heavy donut with chocolate frosting and colorful sprinkles on it. I blinked a few times, mouth starting to water immediately. He handed me my coffee mug first, and I eagerly accepted it, feeling a shiver run down my spine from the exposure of my upper legs.

The second the coffee hit my tongue, I knew something was wrong. It wasn’t bitter at all; it was full of sugar, creamer, and some type of sweet chocolate flavoring. I thought maybe Edmund had accidently given me chocolate milk or something.

When I stopped drinking and saw him watching, I knew it wasn’t an accident.

“What’s with the flavor?” I asked curiously.

Edmund smiled.

My hands went limp, and I almost dropped the mug onto my lap. All the breath in my lungs was gone, evaporating into thin air. I probably looked like a mindless idiot, but I was too overwhelmed and breathless to care. Edmund was actually smiling. I finally caught him in action. The blurry images from my sleepy delusions rushed back to me in a hurry, combining with the beautiful scene in front of me.

Edmund’s smile, though normal and casual, was blinding.

“I think…since every day’s a new day…you should start yours with a little more brightness; don’t you think?” He asked softly.

I couldn’t respond, because what he said had already come true.