Historically Inaccurate

🌥 F I V E 🌥

I push my hair away from my shoulder, looking around when I open the door of the cafe. There are a few college students typing away at their laptops and one or two elder people talking amongst themselves while drinking from their cups of coffee. The lighting is dimmed to allow the hipsters to grow and thrive healthily, and soft jazz music playing in the background for the study blogs aesthetics needed.

I recognize him right away, perhaps because the image of him has been engraved on my mind after he has scarred me for life with his random appearances.

He's wearing a denim jacket over his yellow shirt, the golden color nearly matching that of the rim of his round glasses as he looks up when he notices me approaching.

"About time. I thought I'd be late for class," Ethan says as I take a seat in front of him trying to resist looking at his cup of coffee. I need caffeine in my system and if it wasn't for the fact that I am here for business I would have already ran to either the counter to buy one or snatched his cup.

Somewhere in this town, Daiane is probably feeling disappointed in my lack of self-control towards coffee.

"What class do you have?" The question is already out of my lips before I can think any better of it. It's such a student thing to ask, we are conditioned to look for classmates or someone that might help us, even complete strangers.

"Bio," his eyebrows dip when I take out the envelope from my bag, taking it between his hands when I offer it.

"Oh, are you a pre-med?" Again, unnecessary questions, but that's just the natural flow of conversations when you're a student in any school.

"No, literature — what is this?" I bite my lips from the inside, looking at the nearest possible exit in case this turns into a chase scene...again.

"Look, Ethan — can I call you Ethan? This really wasn't my idea, none of it was, and if you're going to go fight someone, make sure it's not me."

"Why would I fight you?"

"I'm just saying that to get things clear here, buddy." Better safe than sorry. "I'm part of a club, an organization... if you can call it that. We are pretty normal aside from our induction ceremonies, and they would like me to, well, recruit you." I mean, what other way can you word this without sounding like you are trying to hire a hitman.

Ethan stares at me point blank for at least some good five seconds before he leans over, voice low, and asks:

"Are you part of a cult?"

Of course. I mean of course that would make a lot of sense. No, I'm kidding, I'm just restraining myself from bursting out laughing and assuring him that I am part of one and thus should stay the hell away from me before I kidnap him and take him to a remote part in the Montana wilderness to worship our Lord and Saviour Tom Hiddleston.

Actually that would not be a bad plan to get him away from me.

Instead, I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose because it's too early for this kind of bullshitery.

"Open the envelope and read the letter, Ethan."

Surprisingly he does, and carefully so, too. Breaking the wax seal first and taking out the hot-pressed paper in which the letter was printed on. I mean, they do say that the letters are written by hand, but if they are the person who wrote them has too much of a perfect cursive handwriting — and I know for a fact that wasn't Carlos because his scribbles can just barely be described as a form of human communication. I'm just glad we both were born after the invention of computers or he would have been in a big problem.