Trip Hazard

Pick Your Weapon

Noah

Today is the day. We finally decorate the flour baby.

It didn't seem like a big deal at first, but ever since Isaac came to my house last week, he started texting me a countdown. He's one of those people. No shame when it comes to multiple texting. Then suddenly it became quite a big deal. I mean, you only decorate your flour baby once, if you're lucky. Besides, I'm no artist, and although I'll love it with all my heart — as any good parent should — I don't want it to be too ugly. I do have to look at it for the next however many months it's going to be. Ugh. Who makes a baby project months long. It's so stupid.

I raided Grace's stationary early and picked the most exciting things I could find. Glitter, stickers, googly eyes, markers. You name it, Grace has it. But it's fine. I put them all in a Nike backpack so I can keep some of my street cred. Well, almost all. There was too much to fit in well, so I clutch my glitter pens for strength in my hand, and try to hide them from people walking past. I only count four strange looks on my way here.

I push open the door to the little coffee shop where I'm meeting Isaac. It's not a surprise that he's here before me, I'm always late, but it is surprising to see him stood behind the counter, wearing an apron.

Did he tell me he worked here? Am I that forgetful?

I shake the thought out of my head. I'm sure I'd remember that. Then again, my memory has failed me on numerous occasions. Like that time I forgot it was Clara's and my anniversary. Good job she'd organised something, assuming I'd forget. She knows me so well.

Before I can think of any other examples of my appalling memory, Isaac notices my arrival. He smiles and waves.

"Give me two moment-o's, and I'll be ready! I'll bring drinks over." He calls over the whistling coffee machines.

I nod in response and make my way over to an empty table at the back, nestled away behind a large, tumblr-esque bookshelf, filled with books (obviously), potted cacti and bags of coffee beans. It does look quite cute, I must admit. In fact, the whole coffee shop looks incredible, like something out of an artsy movie set in France. Maybe it's the way the light filters through the hanging baskets at the front, shimmering on the table tops, or the rhythm of chatter and laughter that harmonises with the clinking of coffee cups. I already feel relaxed. Even in the corner, it's still light and airy, and the painted mural in front of me, of a far reaching French landscape, adds something more to the environment, beyond what a Starbucks could ever offer.

It seems slightly out of place in our neighbourhood, where it's either cheap, instant coffee or the type that they add gold leaves to. There's not really much middle ground. Apart from here, it seems. It's neither high end or low end, just a rustic coffee shop. I love it. It doesn't need to pick, because it's truly unique. A bit like Isaac, thinking about it.

My analysis of my surroundings ends when Isaac bounds over, artfully balancing drinks and cakes on a tray. I also see the flour baby. He places the tray down on the table, then plops down in the armchair across from me. I avoided any love seats when choosing my spot. You only make that mistake once.

"Eek! This is so exciting!" His grin is electric. I can't help but grin back. I reach for my backpack, but as I go to open it, the zip splits, spilling all the contents over the table and floor. Shit. How am I supposed to subtly carry everything home now? Isaac just laughs at me. I'm eager to divert the attention from me, so try to get him to talk about himself.

"So, you work here?" I ask. I'm fascinated. Isaac both seems to fit in and doesn't all at the same time. The Isaac I've been getting to know is far too loud and confident for a place like this, he'd disturb the peace. But while I've been waiting, I've seen him walk around calmly, seemingly in the zone, chatting casually to everyone. He seems like a natural. It's kind of nice to see a more emotionally aware Isaac.