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“So, would I recognize any of your novels?” Winter asks the woman across from her.
A barely touched Mocha Freeze sits in front of her. Winter holds the straw sticking out of the drink between her thumb and index finger and sloshes around the partially melted slurry inside.
“I have the first three novels on my blog. You can read them if you want,” the woman replies.
Winter nods her head and hums. Outside, a large semi-truck is being unloaded by two men in black winter coats and dark jeans. Their boots are dirty with caked on mud and bits of icy snow that stick to the laces.
“—and I’ll be performing a few poems on Saturday.”
Winter looks back over to the woman—Sherise maybe—and realizes she’s zoned out for the first half of her date’s sentence.
“That sounds cool,” Winter replies, hoping she (Sherida?) doesn’t notice.
“I guess,” (potentially) Sherida shrugs. “The Book Nook requested I perform some of my older pieces, but I don’t know… They’re not really my speed anymore, you know?”
Winter agrees with another winning nod-hum combination, but honestly, she doesn’t know.
If someone were to enter the café right then and hold a gun to Winter’s head demanding she tell them what her date’s stories were about, Winter would take the gun and finish the job for them. Then maybe she’d have an easy out from this date.
A clink of a spoon against ceramic jolts Winter from her thoughts once more as (Sheryl?) slides her empty bowl of vegetable soup to the end of the table. Her mug, a matching dull beige, still sits in front of her, cradled by her hands with a Lipton teabag hanging out.
“If I remember correctly, your profile also said you like history,” Winter offers.
Sheryl drums her fingers against the mug but doesn’t confirm or deny the statement.
Winter follows up, “What part of history fascinates you the most?”
“I like the parts not written in textbooks,” Sheryl begins.
“Like all the history stuffy old men refused to write about?” Winter can’t help but interject.
Sheryl looks affronted by the interruption. She tucks her faded blue hair behind one ear and shakes her head.
“I meant, I like to read between the lines of history. Figure out all the details they’re hiding from us.
Winter looks back at her wearily. “Who’s they?” she asks.
“Oh, you know,” Sheryl starts to say, when a Grimm Hortons employee approaches their table and offers to clear Sheryl’s empty bowl.
“I’m not done with this, actually,” Sheryl replies, her hand hovering over the empty soup dish.
The employee, a tall woman in a standard Grimm Hortons uniform—black apron, grey slacks, black polo shirt, and a red baseball cap—eyes Winter before looking back to Sheryl with a curt nod of her head. The only thing odd about this employee is her missing nametag, which usually sits pinned to their apron’s strap, and her dark skin and rich blonde hair which starkly contrast most of the people in the café, never mind Atlas this time of year.
I’m sorry, Winter tries to convey with a sheepish smile. She wishes she hadn’t ordered her drink to-go so the woman wouldn’t have to back away from their table empty-handed.
When Winter looks back across the table, Sheryl rolls her eyes at the employee’s retreating form.
“Anyway…” Sheryl continues.
She launches into a theory about prophecies and fake timelines and which wars were real and which ones were fabricated and it’s too much for Winter to keep up with. Her date is too much to keep up with.
Maybe online dating was a mistake. Maybe Weiss was right. Maybe Winter likes the idea of dating women, but in practice… Maybe this isn’t her after all. Winter takes in the woman across from her and tries to find the initial attraction she thought she’d recognized three days before. It wasn’t like she’d been catfished, but the details were all wrong. The striking blue hair she’d once found unique and exciting was now just odd and out of place with the rest of her ensemble and her sharp chin which Winter had been drawn to in photos, seemed too jagged and severe in person.
Sheryl chooses this moment to dig an old laptop out of the bag she’s brought with her and opens it up on the table in front of them. At first Winter thinks she’d going to show her something, but when she doesn’t move to turn the laptop around, Winter raises an eyebrow and sits up straighter in her seat.
“What are you—” Winter tries to ask but is cut off by a single raised finger.
“I need to write this down, or I’ll lose the inspiration,” Sheryl replies, not lifting her eyes from her computer.
Winter draws her lips together and does her best not to let out a frustrated sigh.
“I’m going to get something to drink,” she explains to deaf ears.
There’s a line leading away from the counter that snakes through the centre of the café, following a row of stained carpets, soaked with melted snow. Winter finds the back of the line and shuffles over. It’s chilly this close to the entrance, so Winter zips up the front of her jacket and stuffs her gloveless hands in the pockets.
As the line slowly inches forward, Winter notices the employee who tried to take the soup bowl away earlier. She’s behind one of two working registers at the moment, handing paper sleeves with donuts inside to a mother and her children. As she looks up from below her cap to hand the mother her change and receipt, Winter locks onto a pair of violet eyes. They’re so distinctly different that Winter fails to notice an older man grumbling behind her to move forward.
He tries to get garner her attention once more, but Winter is too encapsulated as the woman leans farther over the counter to hand a small hot chocolate to the youngest of the kids. The smile she displays is positively disarming.
“Miss, the line,” she finally hears from behind her.
Slightly embarrassed by her absentminded behaviour, Winter turns and apologizes to him before taking a good ten steps forward, crossing over two more equally soggy mats.
She’s deciding whether or not she can just leave right now—she does have her jacket on after all and who cares about an old purse with her wallet and makeup and car keys—when her phone buzzes from within her pocket.
It’s a message from Weiss. Winter unlocks her phone and swipes over to her messages to read it.
How’s the date going?
Winter starts to type back, fine, but stops herself and clears the message.
After a moment staring at the screen, another message from her sister pops up.
I know you’re there. I saw the ‘Winter is typing’ message come up. What’s up? Did it not go well?
Winter sighs as she takes another few steps forward in line.
I don’t think it’s going to go anywhere, she finally types back.
She can just see her sister’s raised brows and the I told you so look on her face. For being the younger sister, Weiss could be right about a lot of things.
Meh. That happens.
Yeah? Winter types back.
She’s so new to dating, especially to dating women, that the unexpected answer actually soothes her. She doesn’t wait for Weiss to type back, before she sends another message.
Maybe I jumped onto the whole ‘dating women’ wagon too quickly.
Weiss starts to type back, when a familiar voice redirects Winter’s attention.
“You ready to order?” the voice repeats.
Winter looks up and notices she’s now first in line. After sliding her phone back into her jacket pocket, she makes her way over to the open counter where the nametag-less employee waits for her.
“Did you finally come to the conclusion that a Mocha Freeze was not the ideal choice of beverage for a day like this?” the woman behind the register asks, grinning.
Winter looks back to her table where her date is still typing furiously on her laptop and sees the half-finished beverage abandoned in a puddle of condensation.
“I—” Winter considers lying or coming up with an excuse that will move the conversation forward as efficiently as possible, but something—no, someone—stops her.
“I really just needed a break,” she admits, meeting the woman’s piercing gaze.
“Oh.” Winter’s honesty seems to surprise the woman, who tilts her head to the side in fascination. “Boring school project or something?”
Winter chuckles and shakes her head.
“It really feels like that, honestly.”
“But it’s not? I mean, you’re not working on a project for school?”
The woman leans one hand on the counter between them. Her long, tan fingers spread out slowly over the surface as if running them through coarse sand.
Winter shakes her head.
“No, it’s a date, I guess.”
A scarcely contained guffaw escapes from the woman as she tries to rein in her astonishment.
“I’m sorry,” she says, once her breathy laughs die out.
Winter sours.
“But are you really on a date at a Grimm Hortons?” she continues.
“Yes,” Winter bites out.
The woman’s smile is broad and unwavering. Winter wishes it weren’t so, if only so she could tear her gaze away in order to regain some semblance of faculty.
“Well, like I said, I’m sorry for the reaction. I just didn’t expect that answer.” She adjusts the cap on her head and a few loose bangs slip down, crossing over her brow.
“And why’s that?” Winter replies. “Surprised I’m on a date with a woman or surprised I came here of all places?”
“Oh, definitely the latter,” she replies with a knowing smirk.
Winter isn’t sure whether she should be offended or flattered.
“And why the latter?” Winter asks, unable to curb her curiosity.
“Because the world would never be so cruel as to leave me so captivated by a straight woman.”
It takes Winter a second to process her words, but when she does, a flush makes its way across her skin—not like standing outside in the cold but lying underneath the sun.
“So, what would you like… to order?” the woman asks.
Winter clears her throat and looks around her. Surely, their conversation has drawn onlookers, but no. The café patrons and other employees continue on as if today is just another normal Wednesday afternoon. Winter supposes that for most, it very well could be.
“What would you recommend?” Winter asks after a beat.
Despite standing in line for almost five minutes, she hadn’t thought to look over at the menu once.
“I’m partial to regular coffee with two creams, two sugars,” the woman shrugs, “But maybe that’s a little too plain for you.”
Her tongue pokes out from the corner of her mouth and Winter just knows she’s messing with her.
“I like chocolate,” Winter finally replies. She tries to shoot the woman her own coy smile, but Winter’s pretty sure it only comes off as confused and in pain.
“Well, there’s plenty of sweet drinks like that, but I’d make sure to order one hot.”
“Because it’s below freezing outside?” Winter guesses.
The woman shakes her head no, as her eyes drift down to Winter’s lips.
“Because,” she says, looking back up, “I wouldn’t want my number to rub off.”
She then starts typing in an order with deftly placed keystrokes, one Winter hasn’t even placed yet.
“Can I ask what I’m getting?”
A total appears on the green lit interface for a moment, before disappearing.
“You can. Or…” The woman pauses as she reaches for a bright red cup with the store’s logo plastered over the front. “Or it can be a surprise.”
Winter is never one for surprises. She once threatened her roommates in college that if they threw her a surprise party for her birthday that year, she’d make sure their entire stash of alcohol found its way down the drain. However, three minutes later, when a drink appears at the counter with no drink order on it, just a name and ten-digit number, there are two surprises waiting for Winter. The first being that she actually really enjoys mint-chocolate with her cheap espresso. The second being a name. Not Sherise or Sherida or Sheryl. But Robyn.