Promise Me to Please | Please Me #2

ONE

I hated Susan Cray.

Nothing personal against the girl – actually, no, everything personal against the girl. From her gummy, little smile to the same ladybird earrings she wore every single day. That girl infuriated me.

I didn't really have a problem with her before today because today – oh today – today was what Susan picked to be the day for some random reason to get a higher mark than me in our Philosophy class's recent assignment.

I know.

Horrifying.

She must've known I was having a rough week. That my roommate was having a fuck-fest in his room all weekend with a said ex he promised he 'never wants to hear the name of ever again' when we got drunk at The Incubus last Friday. Well, he's been hearing it alright. Specifically, from his own mouth. Repeatedly.

However, I wasn't going to get into that because right now I was devising a murder for Miss Susan Cray.

She was short, so I could always stuff her in a box and ship her off to the Bermuda Triangle. No one would ask. They'd all assume she went on holiday and met some sexy foreign guy called 'Fernando' and ran away with him. The perfect love story.

Gross.

I turned the corner to my favourite coffee shop, wrapping my coat tighter around my body from the freezing winds. Something no one warned me about New York was how drastic the weather was. Yes, I knew the winters would be cold, but I never expected them to be this cold. However, after my four years of living here, I would like to say I was getting used to it, although times like these really did test my patience.

My regular coffee shop was in the centre of Manhattan, only a twenty-minute subway ride from Columbia, my university, and had quickly become my favourite place to get my coffee once I found it in the Spring of my Freshman Year.

Just walking in, the smell of coffee beans, freshly made expresso, and rosewater scented reed diffusers, bundled me up in a comforting blanket as I joined the line, eagerly awaiting my order.

"Well, look who it is. Right on time, might I add." Jim, my usual barista, grinned as soon as he saw me.

"As always." I smiled happily back because I knew in the next five minutes I was getting coffee. Thank the Lord.

"One black coffee and a blueberry muffin?" Jim asked, already knowing the answer.

"You know it." I've gotten the same order for years and who could blame me? Black coffee was my energizer. My power source. My own personal charger. The Bonnie to my Clyde – okay, maybe I needed to chill, but it did things cocaine couldn't.

Not that I've ever done cocaine.

Believe me, I considered it.

Plus, the blueberry muffin was the superior to all other muffins. Fight me on that. I dare you.

"How's college going at the moment? Still the top of your class?" Jim casually made conversation as he put my order together. I liked Jim. He was only a few years older than me, but he was one of those people who always had good vibes about them. I mean, the guy worked as a barista in the centre of Manhattan through rush-hour day-by-day and I had never once heard him complain about his job.

"Sore subject." I muttered, huffing. I could feel my cheeks burning up from the warmth inside the shop. I always hated that about cold weather, you'd bundle up like a human burrito for a quick walk and then warm up along the way, so by the time you're actually in somewhere warm, your burrito felt like saran wrap and your skin was convinced it had entered a sauna.