Work Text:
Carol Sturka is not an expert at trying new things.
She thrives on familiarity, and often fails to see what is so charming about having to get used to novelties. She has her routine, and tries her best not to stray from it too often. It has always worked wonders for her, and why bother to fix something that is not broken?
As a result, she is usually not a happy camper whenever something is out of the ordinary.
Such as today, when she arrives at Lauchlin’s only to find that it has been closed for maintenance. Sure, she probably should have checked first since she has not been there for quite some time, but she is so used to just walking in and taking out her laptop that checking for any possible disruption did not even cross her mind. She audibly groans at the closed sign, and even more at the thought of having to find another place to work from. She is trying to write more chapters of the new Wycaro novel, and her occasional writer’s block can usually be cured by a few hours of working from Lauchlin’s instead of her own office at home. Alas, today she has been forced to improvise.
She pulls her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans, and quickly opens Google Maps to find anywhere nearby that is good enough to write at. Specifically, somewhere with tolerable coffee, comfortable seats, preferably enough power plugs, and—most importantly—not too many human beings. She scrolls through the app, cringes at seeing some recommendations that she knows she would hate, and continues to do so all the way down until something catches her attention.
A newly-opened specialty coffee shop—whatever it is supposed to mean—just a little over two miles from where she is right now. It is called George’s Coffee, and Carol rolls her eyes at how generic it sounds (which she knows is rich coming from her, seeing that her preferred place is a nondescript diner called Lauchlin’s). She takes a quick look at the reviews. Mostly five stars, praising the quality of the coffee—it has its own roastery, apparently—and the place’s ambience. Some reviews stress its calm and relaxed vibe, some others mention that it is great to work at. She looks at photos of the place, and the seats do look comfortable enough to sit for hours. Each table also has its own power plug, from what she can see. Above all, the place seems new and segmented enough not to attract too many humans.
“We have a winner,” she says flatly while walking back to her car.
George’s, as it turns out, looks comfortable enough for a new place that Carol is hardly familiar with, despite its small-ish size. The walls evoke earthy tones thanks to wooden panels, with soft and warm lighting blending in nicely with natural light from the windows. It has lounge settings with armchairs, as well as a number of stools at the counter. Behind the counter lies a series of fancy-looking coffee apparatus that Carol had no idea existed, with the shelf against the wall storing different types of coffee beans in clearly labelled jars. She cannot help but admire the effort the owner must have put into this. Obviously a passion project, she thinks.
She takes a seat on an armchair at an empty table, and from where she is sitting she can clearly see the counter. She takes a quick look at her surroundings, and while there are a handful of people they seem focused on their own thing. Laptops open, earphones put on, and hardly any conversation taking place. She smiles, feeling satisfied with herself for having found this place. Maybe trying new things once in a blue moon is not so bad, after all…
She does not even bother to look at the menu, however, because she already knows what she is ordering. She may be enjoying her new surroundings, but far be it from her to be daring and adventurous when it comes to food and drinks.
A man approaches her table, and from his attire Carol can guess that he is the barista on duty. He is wearing an apron with a stylized logo embroidered on it, his hand holding a tablet to take orders. Carol cannot help but study his features—graying hair, slightly tanned skin, and a grin just enough to be charming without irritating anyone. In short, someone she probably would have the hots for if she were not a lesbian.
“A latte, please. With oat milk. One sugar,” Carol blurts out even before he can ask, though he does not mention anything about it.
“Certainly,” the man says, and that is when Carol notices the name tag on the left side of his apron. The name George is clearly written on it, and she raises an eyebrow at the realization.
“Thanks. You the owner?” she asks, trying to sound casual.
“The one and only,” George replies, a hint of smugness on his face—though nowhere near enough to be unbearable.
Carol smiles back. “Nice place,” she gestures at their surroundings.
“Thanks,” he acknowledges Carol’s compliment, though he seems to have sensed the air finality in Carol’s order—well enough to not pester her about the details of the beverage. And Carol appreciates that greatly. “Coming right up,” he says before walking toward the counter.
Carol takes out her laptop from her bag and places it on the table, nodding approvingly after checking that there is indeed a power plug on the wall. She promptly opens her current draft on the laptop, and begins skimming through what she has written so far. Not a lot, but good enough. Or so she thinks. She stares at the screen, right on the blank space below the last paragraph she wrote, and takes a deep breath. She places her fingers on the keyboard, though no key is pressed, and ultimately decides that she will start writing when her latte is here.
Only a few minutes later, George returns to Carol’s table with a cup of latte and carefully places it right next to her laptop. “Oat milk, one sugar. Enjoy,” he says with a smile before going back to behind the counter, and Carol thanks him. She takes a sip of the latte, which admittedly is levels above anything Lauchlin’s could have ever dreamed of, and mumbles in approval. Soon she is back to staring at her laptop screen, ready to craft new sentences.
Just as she is about to press enter, a brunette woman enters the coffee shop and immediately walks toward the counter. Carol finds it hard not to look, as the woman is ridiculously tall (she must be about seventy per cent legs, Carol thinks) and she walks in a way that Carol can best describe as belonging on runways, not regular floors. She takes a seat on one of the stools, and as she leans back a bit Carol’s eyes widen upon realizing that the woman is not wearing a bra. Even from a couple of feet away Carol can see the outline of her tits only covered by a white see-through t-shirt, and the author can feel her cheeks blushing. What kind of woman wears no bra underneath a white see-through t-shirt in a fucking coffee shop in broad daylights?
Carol shakes her head, her brain attempting to tell her that it is not any of her business. This is a ‘free’ country, after all, she reminds herself. Though just as she is about to try to write again, she gets distracted by George audibly greeting the woman in the white t-shirt. Carol can see them embracing over the counter, and to George’s credit he seems to pay no attention to the woman’s tits as they hug. They start talking, and Carol guesses that they must be good friends. She cannot really make out what they are saying, through when the woman speaks Carol notices a slight accent. European, she thinks, though she cannot quite place where exactly. A Euro woman as good as having her tits out in public… Yeah, that tracks.
“Focus, Sturka,” Carol whispers to herself, and tries to type something—anything, really, until a hearty laughter fills the room. She looks up, and it is the European woman laughing at something George is telling her. Whatever it is, it has to be something absolutely hilarious with the way she seems to be in stitches and leans back her body. For his part, George is in a fit of giggles and looking proud for making the woman laugh. Carol scoffs, but tries to get back to writing again.
Only to get distracted again by more laughter, still coming from the Euro woman. Carol frowns, her hand tapping on the table. As good looking as George is, whatever he says cannot be that funny, can it? Certainly not enough to warrant such a reaction from the tits-showing European woman… Or maybe Carol simply has different standards when it comes to humor. Either way, she finds it baffling.
Though she has to admit, it is hard to look away from the woman. She is attractive, incredibly so, with shoulder-length tousled dark hair. She is wearing minimal makeup, just enough to accentuate her best features. She is also wearing a golden chain around her neck, which Carol thinks would look rather tacky on most people but quite the opposite on the woman.
And of course, the legs. Her ridiculously long legs, which stand out so much that Carol would not be surprised if the woman has done modeling. Carol can easily imagine her being photographed in a wide range of poses across different settings, the sorts you usually see in magazines and advertisements. As the woman continues to talk to George expressively, Carol’s gaze shifts to her hands, and notices that her left wrist is adorned by a watch that Carol recognizes as a Tank Louis Cartier. Not that she is remotely into such luxuries, mind you, but she has seen enough iconic fashion pieces from reading women’s magazines out of spite and she knows for a fact that the particular timepiece is obscenely expensive. If she really is a model as Carol suspects, she must be doing very well financially.
“Jesus, Sturka,” Carol mutters to herself again and shakes her head at the blank space on her screen. She is supposed to be working, thinking that a day out would cure her from writer’s block, and instead she is sitting here watching and making speculations about a laughing European woman she has not even talked to. Really, she cannot help it, for some reason. She sees that George is handing the woman a cup of coffee, and Carol thinks the woman will probably focus on her beverage enough to stop laughing and talking so much. One can hope…
Carol eyes the screen again, her fingers absentmindedly pressing random keys, forming nonsense words that she eventually deletes. Now that her attention is on the draft again, she must be getting somewhere, she thinks. With no vocal distraction whatsoever to disrupt her this time. She is ready to start again.
“It’s dark,” a voice says suddenly, and Carol nearly falls off her seat at how it sounds. Breathy, soft enough to feel intimate. And it’s only two fucking words, Carol tells herself. She gives her thigh an audible pat in an attempt to shift back her focus, and tries to stare at the screen again. She never expected that a stranger saying those two words would mess up her focus so badly, and she can feel heat rushing to her face.
Just as Carol is starting to calm down, the woman starts talking again. “Very intense. Balanced,” she says in the same breathy and intimate voice. Three words, Carol thinks. Each new one sounds impossibly sexier than the previous, and Carol has no idea if that even makes sense. She can see George nodding along, though his expression is neutral enough that Carol cannot possibly guess the topic of their conversation. She cannot even bother looking at her laptop now, and starts fidgeting with her hands in her lap.
“It’s mysterious, with an intense body. It’s delicate and smooth,” the woman continues, and Carol silently begs for whatever higher power there might be to put a stop to her. No, not because she is doing something particularly bad, but rather because whatever it is she is doing is making such an impact on Carol, and Carol feels so embarrassed at herself, a fully grown woman getting all worked up by a stranger’s random words, so much that she cannot do what she is supposed to be doing.
“Such a strong character,” Carol hears. Here we go again… She tries so hard not to bang her head against the table. She wonders if the woman is even aware of how she sounds, and the effect it has on people. There’s no way she doesn’t know, Carol thinks, and she starts thinking if the woman is doing it on purpose because she cannot imagine anyone actually speaking like that in their daily life. Then again, before today she could not imagine seeing anyone going braless in a white see-through t-shirt in a small coffee shop, either.
This, Carol tells herself and she can hear exasperation even in her head, is a trainwreck.
“Yeah, this is rich. Very rich.” At this point, Carol has started tapping her feet against the floor, and she prays that somehow no one else in the room will notice—especially that woman at the counter. Carol takes a huge gulp of her latte, which has gone cold by now, but she does not care in the slightest. The more she watches the woman, the more she wishes she had something stronger to drink.
“Deep and sensual,” the woman says with a smile, and Carol actually chokes on her coffee. She tries her best to not attract attention and most likely fails, though to her surprise neither the woman nor George seems to have noticed her. After a few seconds of coughing she tries to get herself together and takes a deep breath, not even caring about how she has written a grand total of zero words since arriving here. All she can think about is how she will have to stop somewhere to get new batteries for her vibrator on her way home.
“And it has a delicious aftertaste,” Carol hears again.
That’s it, she decides. If she stays still for any longer, it will actually kill her.
Carol stands up from her seat, accidentally knocking one of her knees against the table in the process, but she manages to ignore it. She exhales as she can feel her legs still shaking, though they must be grateful for the movements as she walks clumsily toward the counter. She has no idea what she is doing, and all she knows is that she has to keep moving somehow to keep herself from going crazy—over the most ridiculous reason.
Once she reaches the counter, she clears her throat loudly enough to catch George’s attention, and he turns her head toward her. The woman does, too, and Carol’s heart skips a beat at seeing how much more gorgeous she is up close.
“Can I help you?” George asks. “Is the latte okay?”
Carol lets out a chuckle so ugly that it could have very well come out of a toad’s, but she nods anyway. “Yeah, it’s great,” she says. “But I think I need another packet of sugar.”
“No problem,” George smiles as he picks up a packet on the counter and hands it to Carol. If he notices there is something absolutely ludicrous about the state Carol is in, at least he does not show it.
“Sorry for interrupting, though,” Carol blurts out, her habit of talking faster than she thinks kicking in. “I was trying to work, but your conversation’s too interesting. Whatever the hell it is you’ve been talking about.”
Real smooth, Sturka. If a giant hole would suddenly appear and swallow her, it would actually be a relief.
Both George and the woman look at her incredulously now, and Carol is sure her face is redder than a tomato by now.
“Coffee,” George deadpans, gesturing at the cup in the woman’s hand containing what looks like a shot of espresso. “Zosia here likes my new roast.”
Zosia. So that’s her name, Carol thinks. Zosia, the Euro woman who goes around braless in a white see-through t-shirt and laughs all the time. She has a name, after all, and Carol snorts. She has seriously had it with her, for reasons far too embarrassing to admit.
“What else?” Zosia says with a shrug as she lifts up her cup. Carol takes a quick look at the cup before focusing on Zosia’s face, all the while trying so hard not to let her gaze fall to Zosia’s chest.
Carol just shakes her head and gives the two an awkward smile before turning back and returning to her table. She takes yet another deep breath as she sits down and leans back against the armchair, her laptop forgotten on the table and the draft remaining untouched. She should try writing again, she thinks, and starts moving her fingers around the keyboard again. She can feel both George and Zosia eyeing her, but she tries her best not to respond.
She decides to reread her draft again from the beginning to shift back her focus, and takes one quick look at Zosia before focusing on her laptop screen again. Her dark hair, her hands on the counter, her legs, her golden chain necklace, and—as much as Carol tries to focus elsewhere—her tits. And she still looks like she has not the slightest idea of the effect she has on the stranger sitting nearby.
Why she gotta be so goddamn fuckable?