ALPHA || TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET

007

There's another pause, and he starts again. "I'm sorry, did I - did I miss something?" he stammers for his words in the most adorable way, making my chest hurt suddenly.

"No. No, you're fine. I'm sorry. I didn't expect to see you here is all. I'm sorry." I look to the floor, my hands waving in front of me.

"No, it's fine, really."

I pause, looking down at the counter, and feel a smile escape with my next words. "It is good to see you again." I look up, and his playful smile puts my intestines in a knot. Out of nervousness my hand goes to my forehead, then through my hair. "I'm - wow, I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize." His voice goes low. "It's nice seeing you again, too."

I'm still looking down at the counter, my hands digging into my apron pockets, and it's at this moment I realize a smile is plastered on my face, and I must wipe it off immediately.

"Marley. Not paying you to flirt." My thirty-something boss Rosie's voice startles me, having come out from the back without me noticing. "Just write your number on his cup and leave the rest up to fate. Is Ellen back from her break? That girl takes five hours for a single cigarette."

My cheeks burn red as I turn to glare at Rosie, and she smirks back at me. Suddenly her eyes flit back and forth, from me to him, finally resting on him. "Oh!" her voice chirps. "Oh wow. You're that - you're that actor boy. Elio? Oh my -" she realizes how far her voice has carried, and lowers it. "I'm sorry. It's. It's you! My wife and I got around to watching it the other night and it was phenomenal. You are a phenomenal young actor."

"Thank you," Timothée smiles bashfully, his eyes visibly lighting up with a humble shake of his head.

"Also, it's on us today." Rosie's hands are on my shoulders. "Marley, make him whatever he wants on us. Tim - Timothée, is it? You're welcome here anytime."

He finally decides on a simple black pour-over, and I move over to the bar to scoop ground coffee and pour hot water. I look up every so often to glance at him, Rosie asking him questions, watching him become more and more animated throughout the conversation, thanking Rosie in my head for saving me. I realize how different it is, seeing him in this setting, in the daytime, instead of at 11 PM, drunk in his bed. A celebrity crush.

Each time I look up, his eyes glance over in return. When they do, his face changes ever so slightly; in his smile, I see innocence, his childlike laughter. In his dark eyes, I see the seduction and sinful passion I know he's capable of. My cheeks burn redder every time, and I quickly look back down. I'm still smiling.

He slides cash across the counter, insisting on paying. Rosie surrenders to the charm, as anyone would, and wishes him a good day before returning to the back and leaving us alone. Alone, other than the people sitting in the cafe, a couple of which I've discreetly caught with phones aimed at Timothée.

"Here you go." I hold out the cup and he takes it. A new mood has set in, replacing the awkward tension of before.

He takes a sip from the cup, and while he does, he doesn't break eye contact with me once. That thing where our souls are having a conversation while the two of us just stand together in silence. It's happening again. I'm the first to break contact, hiding my blush, but catch him sliding some bills into the tip jar before walking away.

He said he was on his way to a meeting with his agent, but even so, he politely stops to take pictures with one or two fans inside the shop.

Eventually, when he does leave, my inner logic and reason return from their vacation. The fluttering in my stomach is replaced with nausea.

****************

Like in the film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, I wish there was a way to erase the memories I have of him.

If I said that I'd slept much the past two weeks, I'd be lying. I mean, it was easier this most recent week, making myself busy again with more shifts and freelance writing jobs. But in the first few days that followed after that night, I couldn't stop thinking about the boy who made me feel like a goddess. The boy who'd giggled with me in bed, us both out of breath. The boy who kissed my head after it was all said and done, who I watched sleep so peacefully next to me, whose shirt was still sitting in my laundry basket at home.

But god, part of me hates him. Just for being that good. I'm even dreaming about him. I keep seeing his hypnotic face between my legs, kissing me up and down my thighs, arms gripped around my legs, his curls hanging in his face, keeping eye contact with me the whole damn time.

I told Lara how the night went, and that it was good. I didn't tell her just how good; I wanted to keep the details to myself. But she did know. I could confirm that Timothée Chalamet was indeed a heartthrob of all kinds.

"So are you gonna talk to him again?" she'd asked, not wanting to outwardly tell me to, so as not to push me. She knew I wasn't diving back into the dating world for a long time to come. I told her no, and she understood, though I actually wasn't sure.

Then of course, I had to run into him again.

It's dark out, and I'm sitting on the couch eating a bowl of ramen. I'm in sweatpants and a tank top, Jeopardy on the TV. I've just finished searching more area writing internships that I'll more than likely not hear back from, like usual.

Lara emerges from her room. "Hey, so there's a new club opening on Saturday night. A couple coworkers invited me to go, and we all have the night off. Wanna come?"

"Count me in," I say through a mouthful of noodles.

**********

author's note

i don't really have anything to back this up but i am a firm believer that real-life timothée is a black coffee person. prove me wrong