Chapter Text
Another word from the customer’s mouth and Kaveh will implode. For the past hour, Kaveh’s hands have been scrambling to meet the woman’s demands. “Not enough milk, too much foam, add more coffee,” she complained. He can’t catch a break. The line behind his cash register accumulates; with his colleagues passing weary glances at him as he struggles to maneuver the coffee machine. Kaveh isn’t running on enough sleep to hide the frown carving an arch through his face. His head buzzes with a lingering pain, and his grunts grow increasingly guttural with each failed attempt. Finally, the barista approaches the scowling woman who crosses her arms and heaves her chin. Despite how much taller he is, Kaveh shrinks to the size of a wilted flower.
Her chapped lips purse. Kaveh’s heart stops beating when she opens her mouth. “I thought the workers from such an esteemed coffee house would be better than substandard. It turns out that you are little more than a sham.”
A sham. After all that work Kaveh is reduced to a sham. His right eye twitches, his palm balls up into a fist. “With all due respect, miss, I’m not the one delaying everyone’s day because the milk to cream ratio wasn’t exactly to my liking. I refuse to slave away for fussy, overgrown children!” There are a hundred words he could fire, there are a thousand words he wishes could freeze the woman’s lips into sleet. Alas, Kaveh’s mind swirls wildly, every coherent thought muzzled by smarting pangs. He pinches the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger, pressing down as the seconds tick.
Retorting in the heat of passion wasn’t the wisest idea. The weight of the world crashes on his shoulders and flips his gravity. When Kaveh dares a glance, the woman’s wide eyes glint with flames. Never has a 5’0 woman appeared taller and more dangerous than a 6’1 man. He sucks in a breath before he says, “I’m–”
“Kaveh.”
His fate flashes in front of him as the dry baritone calls him. Kaveh swallows the frog croaking in his throat, then turns on a heel.
Cyno, his boss, reserves a deadpan look when they meet eye-to-eye. He should kneel down and supplicate for forgiveness. That’s likely what he’ll have to do if he wants to keep his only stable source of income.
Kaveh mouths an apology and peeks at the incriminating customer. Rose-tinged ears blow steam when he spots a dubious smirk.
Then and there, Kaveh is reminded why men receive preferential treatment in regards to his romantic life.
“Come to my office,” is the final thing Cyno says before disappearing into the backrooms. Kaveh shudders. Two months behind on rent might turn into three depending on how ruthless Cyno chooses to be.
By no means is Kaveh religious, but he prays to any listening god to spare him a premature resignation.
Further along the row of cashiers, his friend, Dehya, shakes her head and gestures for him to move. It also serves as a ‘ drinks are on me ’ signal. He’ll cling onto that modicum of relief if it’s the last thing he’ll do.
Undoing his worn out apron, Kaveh hangs it up an adjacent rack before setting out to the dreaded office door. The chances of getting fired are nine in ten. He could return to freelance drawing, but the one incident where he got robbed of two hundred fifty Mora from a week-long commission rules the idea out the realm of possibilities. Odd jobs are hit-or-miss; babysitting when Kaveh can barely tend to a wailing child would end in chaos and tears.
Kaveh finds himself in one of those mental loops once again: lamenting his poor choices and even poorer future. Had he not conceded to purchasing Hermès handbags and Prada pumps for a woman who would later refuse his hand in marriage, if he hadn’t staked Mora to get his addict friend treatment, if he thought before throwing his savings at every salesman who fronted as a charity worker, Kaveh wouldn’t be scraping the bottom of the barrel at a niche coffee shop and earning minimum wage as a desperate barista.
Now he crosses the walk of shame to the manager’s office. Kaveh’s thumbnail pokes at his index to keep steady. Cyno would let him off without severance pay, Kaveh would return home to rotten chairs and cracked wall paint, crash into his dust-layered floor, and then job search tomorrow by cycling along the suspicious street stores. Would he turn the guy selling crappy-looking baby dolls? Lesser Lord Kusanali forbid.
He enters the office, shoulders pinned back and spine schooled to a pillar line. Kaveh wants to close his eyes, imagine that he’s watching the first-person perspective of a character in an Inazuman action horror film. Cyno levees him with a vacant stare, a look Kaveh sees when Cyno is ready to launch into a serious debate.
“You look nervous.” Cyno says, which is enough to burst Kaveh’s carmine eyes into puddled cherries. “I don’t bite, because I’m not a dog.”
Kaveh’s mouth dries, lips parted like a stretched bowstring. Sure, Cyno tends to inject humor into casual conversations–there was an instance involving a crazy cat lady that came to backfire on him–but Kaveh didn’t anticipate to be victim to his dull quips during a disciplinary meeting. He’s tempted to shake his head, and he might have without knowing, Kaveh tamps down a surging huff.
“I’m sure we share an understanding of why you are here,” Kaveh nods, head hung low. His eyes dart around the interior. A stack of TCG cards are faced downward next to a Tim Horton’s Ice Capp. There’s a Cafe Terrace at Night painting suspended on the left wall. A Himalayan salt lamp beacons the coffered ceiling in a sandy orange. Cyno acts as a centerpiece. The entire room comes alive once he takes his seat.
For as much as Kaveh weeps at Cyno’s untimely gags, he knows how to live the right way. A way where he isn’t bargaining with the Archon of Misfortune thrice a day. He swapped stories with Cyno when the two of them were kayaking. Unexpectedly, Cyno opened with a story about his mother, how he needed to work two part-time jobs to keep the household afloat. Kaveh was brought to near tears, a sight that earned him a nonplussed reaction from his boss. Prior to that, Cyno struck him as a guy who lived comfortably as a child. He shared none of the negative behaviors most men in his position engaged in. Cyno didn’t attach himself to people who were arrogant and inconsiderate. He didn’t drink and party day to night. Out of the employees in Everyday Latte (half of his soul disintegrates when he’s asked to specify the name of his workplace), Cyno never took a sip of alcohol or smoked. There were times he drove Kaveh home to save him from a drunk driving accident. Kaveh thinks he vomited over the leather car seats on one occasion, Cyno circumvents this question every time Kaveh asks. It only increases his suspicions.
Encountering people who are objectively better than him becomes easier the more effort he pours. The days where he was a naive amateur were romantic, because there was no scale to measure himself. Now that he’s a working-class adult, Kaveh needs to climb the top of every scale imaginable. How far can a man climb an infinite ladder?
“Kaveh?” Cyno calls and snaps his fingers.
“Sorry,” Proffering an apology doesn’t soothe the wound in his chest. If he tries to curl his mouth a centimeter from the line, he’ll topple over. “Yeah, I know why I’m here.”
Cyno’s brow raises, but the stare vanishes once he sorts through documents and other-related paperwork. “You can’t yell at a customer, Kav–”
“Don’t fire me.” There should be a zip on his mouth. Better yet, he should sew it shut. Kaveh tosses the admission without a ‘please.’ Internally a skirmish between his senses ensues, Kaveh has never wanted to fall into a hole more than now. “I need this job. It was shitty of me to blabber without thinking. Yeah, I could’ve put the company in jeopardy, but I swear I’ll do anything for you to keep me.” He stammered over the last sentence, but he executed every pleading word with one breath.
Capable, confident individuals wouldn’t have acted in the same way. He’s not dignified like they are. When Kaveh bleeds, the blood seeps through his clothes.
He can run, but he can’t hide.
“I was never going to fire you.”
Kaveh blinks to the rhythm of a butterfly’s flitting wings. He pries his eyes wide open to prevent a tear from running loose. “Oh.”
“I would’ve let you off without a warning, but I need to act out my role. Your retaliation was understandable, and justified to an extent. However, the action violates company policy.”
Kaveh scrapes dirt-shoved nails against his nape, head dizzy. “Mhm, I get it.”
“I’ll need to temporarily suspend you.”
Right, happily ever afters are reserved for successful people. The information is enough to ground him back to land. He sighs, heart threatening to punch his ribcage open. Is this what it meant to undergo the five stages of grief in under a minute?
“That’s.. fair. I’m sorry, man–I’ll keep my mouth shut next time.”
“I don’t enjoy this either, but it’s alright, Kaveh. Call me if you need help. Everyone’s thinking the same thing out there.”
Kaveh doubts he’ll call, but he passes a weak smile over to Cyno. Despite the doom waiting for the opportune moment to drop on him, Kaveh carries a responsibility to pay the favor forward.
He would never come across a boss like Cyno again. He’s a gem.
Kaveh bows, makes haste to the door and leaves. The first step outside, viscous streams of water track his reddened cheeks. Shit.
–
His landlady’s patience must be running thin. Two months and Kaveh still hasn’t paid his due fees. The costs keep accruing, and the sight of his bill is enough to inflict cardiac arrest. He drags a hand through his hair, ruffling up the section where ruby clips criss cross.
The future doesn’t look murky. Kaveh wouldn’t have to pawn off his soul to the devil. Before he left the coffee shop, Candace patted him on the back and whispered an invitation to her and Dehya’s place tonight. Kaveh isn’t sure he can handle another person looking after him right now.
Spring manifests in the kaleidoscopic blossoms that bud in the tall green grass. Spinning balloon flowers, spiraling clematis flecked with violent and fuschia blooms, and a motley of minty creeping thymes. The adjacent sweet gum trees preen under daylight. Oxygen clings onto the tip of Kaveh’s tongue.
As much as Kaveh bakes in the rising temperatures, he wasn’t chased to sickness by the deluges of snow and caking rime. Winter didn’t seem like three months ago. Kaveh crystalized into an ice cube at the time. The relentless shivers and sneezes acted as an interlude to his week.
Kaveh stops in his trail. It takes him two glances to comprehend the panorama granted to him. Incarnations. The flower shop’s name has caught wind over the past three weeks. Kaveh listens to the customer’s conversations (not his fault they talk at concert-level volume) and hears peppy wives dote on the flora they sell.
He forgot the rose-tinted store was staring at the coffee shop two blocks away. Kaveh chews on his upper lip as he contemplates a visit.
Potted plants and elegant bouquets embellish the peach-coral front of the store. ‘Where Dreams Flutter Like Butterflies’ is printed over the striped canopy. Crabapple blossom shrubs twine around the panes of glazed windows. Wooden baskets decorated with asters and forget-me-nots are suspended by thick ropes, a cheerful greeting to potential patrons. Beds of periwinkle candytufts and dahlias blanket the tiled exterior in sectioned circles. Tying the design together is the canvas deposited on an easel, a watercolor painting of a drifting lotus paraded for passersby’s appraisal. Kaveh thinks it’s the aesthetical embodiment of a siren’s song.
The owner selected the finest architect in town. Kaveh would hire this person to sculpt his physiognomy anew. Forget plastic surgeons, he could go under the graphing pencil of an architectural genius instead. The flower shop is a porcelain doll in contrast to the threadbare puppet of his workplace.
Once upon a time, a younger Kaveh believed he would construct an edifice of this magnitude.
Kaveh certainly did not have second thoughts about his job when he spied a ‘Now Hiring’ sign posted next to a waltzing arrangement of potted thulian beard tongues and amethyst delphiniums. With how patently he was considering a legitimate resignation, Kaveh might as well slip the peeking foxgloves over his fingers.
Analyzing the interior is the only way Kaveh will be able to understand the buzz (and his wonderment) attached to the place.
He can also purchase a bouquet for his father’s death anniversary. Snow-white petunias, a smattering of heliotropes, or a troupe of gerbera daisies, he was spoiled for choice. Kaveh would cultivate a garden of milky flowers in memory of him. Immortalize him in a way that wouldn’t sink his mind into the abyss.
Like a moonflower, he unfurled once everyone else fell asleep. Honey hair whisked from the clips Kaveh secured each strand into at night. In the advent of cockcrow, Kaveh plucks himself out of bed and rinses off the stench of sweat and champagne. In the absence of daylight, he’d down teeming shot glasses until his vision whirled. By morn, Kaveh speedwalked alfresco for work, inundated in musky perfume and flaunted a winsome smile. By eve, Kaveh writhed and wailed from sterile nightmares afforded by his slumber, breaths aborted, chest set ablaze.
Not like he could idle off in a crowd of teenage girls. His thoughts would have to scream for Kaveh to hear half of them. Did they really have to be so verbose?
Realistically, only husbands and grandmothers purchased from flower shops. The occasional collector or two, sure, but not young ladies who were just dismissed from class. Kaveh’s lips stretch into a thin line and presses his nose down. One of the girls wore blonde pigtails, twirling her tresses with an index finger. Another, a brunette, giggled endlessly and held a palm to her chest in false affront.
Kaveh stands concrete-still, his head aching the longer he stared at the silk draping bows and diamonded bracelets. They belong to Chanel or Burberry, not a humble flower shop.
If his hearing isn’t mistaken, the coquettish whispers these girls passed around were highly concerning. He remembers boxing his friends for the last slice of cheese pizza. They did not, however, simper and snicker encompassed by pots of anemones and primroses.
Kaveh parses the area with a keener eye. There is a triple-deck display of blossoms and plants. At the upper topmost level housed garnet and amber flowers: hibiscuses, marigolds, amaryllises, and lilies of the valley. Beneath the sunset arrangement were the golds, emeralds and lapis. From daffodils and pansies, then rosemary and garden sages, to canterbury bells and irises–the chromatic burst materializes into a parrot’s splayed plumage. Kaveh’s attention settles on the lowest shelf. Indigoes, purples, and pinks glow in the nether sector of this tower. Morning glories, ranunculuses, dianthuses, and snapdragons play as the coral reefs and sunken gemstones in the floral ecosystem.
Cherry plywood shelves mount the walls. A variety of vases fill the space. Ceramic vases, fluted vases, mason jars, glass bowls, Kaveh was staring at a prism of antiques. Polyethylene bins preserving hollyhock mallows and taller flowers were scattered around in a motif reminiscent of a rainforest. Kaveh is no longer a barista who brews stale lattes, he was an adventurer exploring the jungle for artifacts and treasures.
A bird cage rattles as a sparrow chirrups. Kaveh forms a connection between the avian’s trills and the girls’ gossip.
Kaveh snorts and turns his head to observe the cashier counter.
Karma came back to bite him. Kaveh turns stunned. Muscles numb, veins cold. Greater Lord Rukkhadevata must possess a transcendent brand of cruelty to bestow him with transient luck. There is a high chance that Kaveh is hallucinating the figure who exchanges a pearl-wrapped bouquet of calendulas and wishbone flowers.
Al-Haitham, the cashier’s name tag spells out. Kaveh’s cheeks hum with heat. He has to avert his eyes before he drops facefirst to the floorboards.
The silver crown of hair sets him apart from the rest. Layered, choppy, and swept. His tips are polished, a tint of white bleeds from the roots. Earthy hues encircle the man’s periphery, yet his eyes cut nature with a synthetic turquoise gaze. In a sea of olives and fern, Al-Haitham remains a crystalline pond.
Kaveh shoves his fist on his lips and clears his throat with strained coughs. Before he’s issued a restraining order, Kaveh squeezes through the chattering horde. His posture bends to a 90 degree angle as he hides behind a freestanding shelf. Kaveh couldn’t rear his head. Not when the possibility of getting caught by him was at bay. His head must have gained ten pounds.
Flowers. He was here to purchase flowers. Kaveh’s shoulders sag once he reminds himself. A thumb draws up to his scalp and scratches a line. He surrendered enough of his integrity back at Cyno’s office. From now on, defeats will be at his behest.
(No, it will not.)
Kaveh parses the selection at a leisurely gait. His tongue pokes the inside wall of his cheek as he caresses the petals. A distant memory emerges from ash: the scene of his boyish self latching onto his mother’s side as they sweep through sheafs of flowered baskets and vases. He would giddily point at the thickest roses. Plants that produced pudgy tufts. His mother tried to teach him the differences between the blossoms, but Kaveh’s ears were caught by the cadence of crooning camellias and cockscombs.
She always brought home a wrapped bouquet. On a Monday, Kaveh would notice a cluster of pink cosmos. On a Saturday, he would find a collection of geraniums and hydrangeas laid outside his bedroom door.
To think his environment was fraught with flowers. What a wistful realization. The container garden, the lantanas he seeded and stashed behind the other pots–
“How long do you plan on loafing around, sir?”
Kaveh’s heart almost bolts out of his throat. His shoulders stiffen, toes curled where they are pinned to his boots. The voice leveled Kaveh with an even tone. He would turn if the silence hadn’t stretched.
“I was looking at the selection, if you couldn’t tell.” Kaveh huffed, a pout pulling at his lips. The question sounded like an accusation. As if Kaveh was stripped shirtless and dancing to country music in the middle of the aisle. In a party, sure, but not a reputable flower shop.
“You’ve been staring blankly into space. Unless the wind has done us a favor and planted oxygen flowers, I can’t observe a subject of interest.”
What is this guy’s problem? Kaveh scoffs. “You know how to joke around.” Kaveh shuffles until he faces the figure. He’s ready to argue and retaliate. Back in the coffee shop, Cyno had interfered to prevent further damages. Here, he can say whatever he wants without fearing the consequences.
Or not.
Words and letters jumbled together like it was a game of scrabble. Kaveh bit his lips shut. His jaw would have slacked if he hadn’t.
Al-Haitham stands a few feet from him. Where he’s fixed to the floor, Al-Haitham pads across the grounds seamlessly. His chin rests on a palm, his arm rooted on a nearby table.
“You look surprised. I suggest you confess to attempted robbery right now.”
The nerve! Al-Haitham’s assertion alone is enough for Kaveh to steal a wide stride forward. “Are you mental?! I wasn’t planning on stealing anything!” He’d steal the pedestal this brat was standing on, though. Kaveh hefts his chin to meet eye level. There wasn’t a disparity in height, Kaveh can gloat that fact internally.
“I see.” is Al-Haitham’s halfhearted response. Kaveh’s fingers curl against his suit pants. Even worse is that he motions a retreat after initiating an aggressive attack.
In conclusion, Al-Haitham wasn’t an appealing choice of partner. Too daft, too drab, and too aggravating not to chase after.
“Seriously? You’re going to walk away after accusing me of stealing?” He follows each step in equal measure, the top of his head about to explode.
“Do you want me to interrogate you?”
“No!”
“Then we’re done with the conversation.”
Kaveh’s blood boils and bubbles. He might draw an ounce from how hard his fingernails dig into his palms.
“Actually,” Al-Haitham stops walking, Kaveh nearly crashes into him. “If you weren’t going to commit a crime. What are you doing here? Sight-seeing?”
Day in and day out, Kaveh has to tolerate customers that scold him for the smallest flaws in their brews. They complain that it tastes bland, that there’s not enough water, that he should have added more sugar–he’s been barked at more times than he’s willing to count.
What’s so different with the situation at present? Kaveh steadies his breaths, schools his posture into a refined shape.
“I’m here to buy flowers for my late father.” Kaveh says. It’s a reminder to himself as much as it is edification for the inquisitive cashier.
“White lilies.” Al-Haitham replies after a five second stretch of silence.
“What?”
“You wish to commemorate him, yes? White lilies are a suitable choice.”
Kaveh lashes flutter in a snap succession of blinks. Nerves cause his body to falter, and Kaveh smooths a hand down the side of his scalp.
“Right. Where are they?”
Al-Haitham exhales before he navigates the interloping tables and statues ahead. He locates a pot of white lilies, pointing at the fragrant batch of wavy petals. “With all your staring, you neglected to check what was right in front of you.”
“Shut– leave me alone. It’s not like I’m some scanner.”
“Are you going to buy them?”
Kaveh almost says ‘no.’ He wants to see Al-Haitham’s expression when met with rejection. Would he seethe?
“Yeah, whatever.”
They transfer over to the counter. Al-Haitham positions himself behind the table while Kaveh stays on the other side of the border. He clears his throat as Al-Haitham readjusts the blossoms, auditing the arrangement with a sharp eye. When that’s done, he passes Kaveh with a look: eyes lidded, mouth rounded.
“120 Mora.”
Kaveh provides the sum with a groan and cradles the promised pot. He breathes in the scent, sated.
A smile lights up his face. Kaveh glances at Al-Haitham, who blatantly stares. His smile fades into a lour.
“You’re welcome.”
Oh, he’s testing his patience. Before Kaveh raises the middle finger and drops dirt on the tiles, he twists his entire body and bounds for the exit. There’s no denying that Al-Haitham has a pretty face, but the second he opens his mouth, it mars his charms.
Kaveh, against his better judgment, chances a final glance toward the windows. Maybe there were other flowers or decorations he overlooked.
Instead, he catches Al-Haitham’s verdant gaze. Kaveh forgets to breathe, forgets that he’s no longer in close proximity with that damned cashier. Al-Haitham, through the peek of glass, averts his eyes and fixes on another subject.
Perhaps there was merit.
–
“How attractive are we talking from a scale of 1-10?”
Kaveh rolls his eyes after he snorts. He drizzles a swirl of caramel syrup on the milk foam and caps the drink with a plastic lid. With a closed-eye grin, he serves an iced macchiato to the waiting woman and tips his head low in a bow.
“Well, I’m not rating him any higher than 6.” Kaveh says as he rinses his hands.
“You do realize how contradictory you sound, right?” Dehya blows through her lips, facepalming.
“Is there a reason you gave him an average number?” Candace cuts in the midst of grinding coffee beans. Dehya doesn’t bother to conceal her stare.
Kaveh raises his arms and drops them. “His personality is terrible. I mean, stick-up-his-ass terrible.”
Dehya smirks. “Maybe your stick can go up his–” Before she can finish her sentence, Candace covers Dehya’s mouth with a firm hand.
It’s as if rose petals fall on Kaveh’s cheeks.“What the hell?!
“Sorry,” Candace shoots an exasperated glare at Dehya, which earns a cheeky smile in return. “But you said he looked as you were walking out the flower shop, right?”
“Psh. I don’t think it means much.” Kaveh says.
Candace shakes her head. “I think you should try again. The stars are aligned, aren’t they? Your workplaces are nearby, he seems interested, you’ve spoken… Are there any details I’m missing?”
Kaveh hunches over the counter, neck inclined low. Was there a hint of truth in Candace’s input? Kaveh’s last relationship ended in a mess of screams and tears. When he went down on one knee and extended a diamond promise ring to his ex-partner, she cursed him out and left the apartment. Five days later, he received the message: “ I’m breaking up with you, ” in plain white text. He lost six thousand four hundred Mora that day. If he were to calculate his spendings throughout the relationship, Kaveh’s eyes might sting. Since then, Kaveh’s bank account hasn’t recovered from the financial loss.
He attempted to reach out to apologize and salvage their relationship, yet Kaveh could only bite his tongue when he heard another male voice at the end of the line. The buzz after that call ended shook him. No matter how hard he pinched his arm, Kaveh sobbed. He struggled to breathe.
“Hold on,” Dehya clicks her tongue. Kaveh raises his head and turns to her, and Dehya nods to the direction of the entrance. “That him?”
Kaveh shouldn’t have followed her eyes. He should have kept his head down and pretended not to hear. There must have been a scheme at play. Kaveh digs the pads of his fingers onto his shoulder. He might leave indents if he pressed down harder.
The day’s bad luck should have been evident the moment a truck nearly ran over a food truck. Kaveh survived by a hairsbreadth of movement. One second too long, one step too short, Kaveh would have slammed against the bumper. Imagining the lofty total of hospital bills and medicinal fees dizzies him enough to warrant a trip to the emergency room.
Once he reconciles the fact that a group of five–including Al-Haitham–saunters through the doors of the coffee shop, he’d likely need a trip to the emergency room.
Teal eyes find crimson. He stares at Al-Haitham from their distance. The moment his lips curl into a smirk, the blush from Kaveh’s cheeks crawls to his ears and nape. Trying to cover up his face would only pronounce his humiliation.
“I believe it is,” Candace says with a soft hum. “Kaveh, stay focused. They’re coming over.”
Kaveh dons a too-wide smile and marches over the counter, chewing the air in his mouth. Al-Haitham is accompanied by another man. In contrast to Al-Haitham’s lazy silver strands, his hair was onyx black, chopped to the outline of his jaw. The section where his bangs rest is a stripe of chartreuse. Kaveh’s concentrated gaze dissolves when he scans the man.
“Are you taking care of the white lilies?”
Kaveh’s shoulders snap straight. The glare he renders Al-Haitham flares high. He’d wipe the smug look on his face with a flick of his hand. After work hours. “Oh, you– ”
“Haitham, you don’t need to taunt a customer you mistook for a thief.”
He chokes on his breath like he’s swallowed coffee wrong. The smaller man tips his head in a nod, a warm smile filling his cheeks.
Candace nudges Kaveh to the side, her fingers laced around his wrist. “Hello. What are your orders?”
The black-haired man leans forward. “One small butter pecan, one medium cinnamon bun, one large caramel vanilla, and two small French toast coffees please.”
A sigh passes Kaveh’s lips. He fixes his apron and diverges from the throng.
“Alright. Your name, sir?” Candace pulls a tall coffee cup from the stack and readies a marker.
“Tighnari.” Kaveh’s ears perk at the last syllable of a name. Unlike Al-Haitham, Tighnari comes across as friendly; the type of guy who would help his neighbor throw out the trash. He rolls out the knots in his shoulders before skimming the various coffee beans.
Little does he know. “You haven’t answered my question.” Al-Haitham’s arid voice starts to imprint itself in his recognition. Kaveh drags the rows of his teeth in a rough line. He wishes there was an affordable way of plugging his ears from meaningless noise.
“I’m taking care of them splendidly. What? Plan on paying them a visit?” Kaveh’s vision flicks as he whirls his eyes.
“If I had your home address–” Kaveh’s hands still in the middle of gathering filtered water. He inhales oxygen for five seconds before he pushes the wind out. “Perhaps I’d visit.”
A small part of Kaveh’s brain lights up. To see Al-Haitham anywhere near his house is an idea that tempts and haunts him.
“I’m working. Go back to your table, Haitham. ” Kaveh says the name with a sound redolent of a hiss. Al-Haitham departs after proffering a halfhearted wave and disappears into the static.
If Kaveh weren’t fresh off of suspension, he would mess up Al-Haitham’s order. He looks allergic to peanuts (and human decency) .
Four hours tick and not one person in the booth leaves. Kaveh had to squint his eyes throughout the day to see if they were still present. Three girls and two guys occupy the seats. If Kaveh’s sense of hearing has any credibility, he’s heard the names ‘Nilou’ and ‘Collei’ more than once.
Kaveh switches shifts with Layla. He’d purchase a cone of cheese ice cream from one of those traveling merchants. His gums would ache from the cold, trickling pearls of milk would soak his prone fingertips, and it might spill over his white blouse, but Kaveh craves a soft treat.
The moment he steps out of the counter, Kaveh bumps into a sashaying child. A cup of coffee skids off its respective tray, smudging the front of Kaveh’s shirt in a glaring blot of brown. His hands flex in the air as coffee bleeds past the fabric and singes his skin.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” the girl says, hands raised in front of her face as she scrambles for a tissue.
Kaveh gives a tight-lipped smile. Judging by the pressure on his shoulders, he’ll likely pull a muscle. When the child’s eyes prick with tears, Kaveh melts.
“It’s alright, Miss. I’ll clean it up myself.” he inhales slowly and nods his head to the small client. His reassurance doesn’t stop her from crying; fortunately, her mother retrieves her and mutters a hasty apology.
Candace approaches the mess, a mop and bucket in her hands. “You’ll need a change of clothes.”
“I thought so,” Kaveh scratches his nape, nails scraping hard lines on the surface. The damage was done, leaving his skin burnt. “For God’s sake–”
“Here,” A terribly familiar voice calls him to attention. Al-Haitham, who wears a sardonic smile, extends a paper towel to Kaveh. His eye twitches, he’s tempted to flip Al-Haitham off.
Instead he accepts, tentative. Kaveh pats the steeped area with the towel, he keens as he drags it across roasted skin.
Al-Haitham snorts. “You handled the situation more calmly than expected.”
“Well, I’m glad I proved your prejudices wrong.” He pretermits the stinging urge to add asshole in his sentence. Al-Haitham would certainly complain if a lowly coffee shop employee talked back to him.
“I have no prejudices about you, Kaveh.”
His hand pauses over his breast bone. Kaveh resumes his cleaning after a swift shake of his head.
Al-Haitham is a chore to deal with. “Thank you for the tissue,” he huffs and passes the towel to a spying Candace.
The evidence is prominent, but every remaining minute of his break needs to count for something. No one would care about his stained shirt.
Before he exits the coffee shop, Kaveh pays Al-Haitham a narrow glance.
Al-Haitham was already staring at him. “Don’t let the door hit you on your way out,” his comment kindled Kaveh more than the coffee incident from earlier.
Asshole.