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“I’m so stressed,” Grace gripes as she walks during a quiet night in town. Finals is around the corner, so she’s been doing double-time on her study sessions. Her mom’s away on another on-site field assignment. When this happens, it’s her cue to visit the quaint café a few blocks away from hers. It’s not like her mom’s making it home tonight again.
She reaches the cafe’s simple storefront. White casings surround the window and green half-lite door. The word “Matilda’s” is painted on the hanging sign above the door. She opens it, ringing the door chime in the process. There are stools by the counter; the cash register’s on the countertop and a glass display is attached to it housing various cakes and pastries. Her favorite of the bunch is the chocolate mascarpone cloud cake.
As she takes her seat at the counter, a tall, lean man in his forties with a stubble beard comes out of the kitchen door behind it. He sports a dark brown haircut with bangs covering half of his face. He also wears a navy blue apron over a white shirt, the latter barely fitting his frame; his biceps could borderline tear its sleeves. A tag is pinned on his apron with the name “Leon” printed on it.
“Sorry. I’m closing shop,” Leon informs her.
“I’ve been coming here for the past four months. Shouldn’t I be given a break for last call?” Grace counters.
He sighs in submission. “You’ll have your usual then?”
“How about for this round, you surprise me.”
Chuckling at her response, he nods. “Alright, give me a sec. I’ll whip something up.” He goes back to the kitchen, leaving her momentarily.
Grace props her chin on the countertop. Adorning the upper side of the wall are framed photographs of different landscapes. There’s a forest in Spain, a skyline of a city in China, and a bayside view of Alcatraz Island. From what she recalls, Leon took these photos by himself. He mentioned he had travelled frequently during his previous job. There’s also a framed sketch of a handgun prototype he tried to patent below them. A few minutes later, he steps out of the kitchen holding her order and sets it in front of her.
“Wow! This looks great Unc,” she giggles.
“It’s an iced sea salt matcha latte. I’ve been experimenting for new items to include in the menu.” Leon rubs the back of his head, the other hand on his waist, goading her, “Now try it or else I’ll tell the cops there’s a teenager who broke into my shop.”
She rolls her eyes and tastes his handiwork. After sipping on the straw, she puts the cup down and presses a hand on her cheek. “Oh my God! This is the best drink I’ve ever tasted.” In an instant, she slurps a mouthful of the latte again. Leon’s smirking at how she savors his concoction.
He thereafter hangs the “We’re Closed” sign on the door leading out into the street. “How long are we going to do this?” he asks. “And does your mom know you’re out late often?”
“I don’t think she cares. She’s too wrapped up with work,” she explains, shaking her cup.
At this point, Leon casts his apron aside and plucks out a beer bottle from a nearby display fridge. Leaning on the wall beside the counter, he crosses his legs at the ankles and pops the bottle open with his thumb. “You’re not stuttering anymore.”
“I used to. You’re now the only one other than my mom who I can talk to like this,” she admits, swirling her drink with the straw, “I’m a mess at school.”
“You’re not Grace.” Leon takes a swig of beer as he continues, “Didn’t you tell me you aced your midterms? Frankly, you’ve got a bright future ahead of you.”
She furrows her eyebrows. “What I mean to say is—I’m doomed to be socially awkward outcast. Since I don’t have any friends there, studying’s all I do.”
“High school’s a blip on the radar anyway,” he comments, “You should enjoy life while you’re young. There’s better things to do than to spend time with a washed-up geezer.”
“Nuh-uh, I like hanging out here,” she says after loudly slurping on her straw. She then faces him, smiling softly. “I feel—at home with you. Your cooking’s what convinced me.”
“Heh, quit buttering me up,” Leon chortles. He sits on the stool beside her and speaks to her in a low, soothing tone, “I’m serious though—I don’t want you getting stuck with something that’s not going to work out.”
“Look, I hate having to worry about moving again,” she laments, placing her empty cup on the counter.
“Grace.” He rests his left hand on the counter; her right hand captures it shortly afterwards.
She caresses his hand and catches sight of the glint of his wedding ring. “Your ex-wife was the one behind this cafe, am I right?”
“How did you know?” he asks with a raised inflection.
“I like analyzing stuff. Maybe it’s because I’m into crime documentaries.”
He smiles, setting his bottle on the counter. “Sounds like you should be in the FBI.”
“Like hell they’ll get me. I’m still worried I flubbed my SATs,” she reacts to his praise.
Silence ensues as his eyes soften and drop to her lips. “You’re so fucking cute that it bothers me,” Leon confesses, “you deserve a more normal relationship.”
There’s a tingling in the pit of Grace’s stomach. She locks fingers with him; her pleading, “Please just let me stay with you longer.” His thumb and index finger grasp her chin.
He narrows the distance between their lips. “You’re making a big mistake.”
“Maybe I am, but I don’t give a shit,” she breathes as her eyes close, “I don’t want to regret not being with you.”
Their lips crash together. Two divergent lifetimes coalescing. For now, at least, Leon’s cafe is what Grace calls home.