Orphic (#1 in the Hajar series)

three

"What happened?"

Farah let out a sigh, "Table five is particularly hand-sy."

Maggie folded her arms over her large chest with a frown. "Well if you'd lose some damn weight and be skinnier like other girls, maybe we could get you a new uniform so you didn't look so teasing."

Farah wasn't fat, she was just... average. She couldn't help the way the shape of her butt was visible through her work attire, but her boss didn't want to comply and instead shamed her for the way she was shaped. Instead of going off, Farah bit her tongue to avoid losing her job. The pay was alright and she knew this was the only place that would employ her.

She began to drift off into her thoughts when something prevented her from doing so.

Her stomach dropped.

Farah could smell it more clearly now, the familiarity. Clean linen flooded her senses, making her more attentive and putting her on high alert. Rather than the scent being overwhelming, it awakened her nerves and left her a jittery mess from behind the counter.

And then she spotted its source. Stood in all of his glory was Israfil, his hair a sopping inky mess on top of his forehead, tendrils falling into his silver eyes. She supposed she hadn't noticed it before, but he had a towering figure, that of around six-foot-five. He looked extremely out of place in this cafe that housed irksome self-entitled hipsters and businessmen and women from the rain.

She was so entranced, in fact, that her mouth slightly dropped open at the sight of him. The man was truly and utterly ethereal; a pleasant kind of oddity that bordered an orphic peculiarity. Nonetheless, he began to shrug off his soaking leather jacket and start walking towards the register.

Israfil had quite honestly never felt so neurotic in his entire life. The rings on his hands clanked together as his fingers drummed against the marble counter of the register, craning his neck to what seemed like his search for a cashier when in reality he was looking for the girl that he had pulled away from a cliff the previous day.

"Farah," Maggie called from behind a coffee machine. "Go help that young man while I make this mocha that you so obviously can't make yourself." She instructed.

Farah felt like letting out a slew of curse words but decided to keep her mouth shut. She took her time to walk to the cash register, wiping her clammy palms on her small apron. Maybe if she pretended as if she didn't recognize him, he wouldn't say anything?

"What can I get for you today, sir?" Absentmindedly, she began to toy with a loose thread that hung off of her uniform.

Israfil took a moment to appreciate how beautiful she looked. Her hair was a curly mess as always, but he thought it was adorable- a symbol of innocence. And although her smile was breathtaking, displaying the deep dimples that imprinted her cheeks, he felt as if there was something off.

When his gut told him that there was something wrong, he was typically right. But he couldn't shake the feeling of trepidation and apprehension that settled in his stomach no matter how hard he tried. "What would you recommend?" Israfil asked, his eyes scanning the menu and then landing on his mate.

Farah looked up, her eyes meeting his own, catching him mid-stare. For a moment she found herself becoming lost in the mixture of silver and cerulean, but cleared her throat and forced herself to look down. "Depends what you like, but I like to think most people are like the beverage they drink."