Of Mochas and Macchiatos

one. chalk bodies

"Evelyn. I was unaware that I had wandered out of the public domain that is the library and into a private residence of yours. I do like what you have done with the place." He sweeps his hands out gesturing at the elaborate rugs and tall marble columns that punctuate the 'public domain' that is the Astoria Town Library.

Ugh.

Evelyn. I mean, first off, is it like actual law that the Starbucks person must always get the customer's name wrong? Not that I'd been to a Starbucks for months, but really? It hadn't changed whatsoever.

Secondly, I can't believe that Rafe Archer does not even know who I am. Okay. Well, I can believe it. There's no way that Archer would ever bother to socialise...no, network with anybody as connectionless as I, but still, it hurts. Just a little bit. We've only been studying in the same history class as each other for the last couple months. Same lecture theatre, almost every day. Am I really that invisible?

"Actually," and even I can hear the slight edge in my voice, "it's Evangeline. Well, Eve or Evie to you."

"Is that so? Evangeline."

And I hate myself for the way I revel in the way he languidly sounds out my name. I also kinda hate myself for not turning on my heel and stalking off to another table on the other side of the library. Or perhaps the other side of the world.

It's just lately I've been feeling so homesick. I don't belong in Astoria, amongst the old money opulence. I'd always hoped, dreamed that once I became a student at The. Ever-so-prestigious. Astoria. University. I'd feel a sense of connection to this quaint gingerbread-esque town. But still, I am alien. I don't belong here. I long for the sense of familiarity that I felt in my hometown Reeves, back in the warm kitchen of my parents' bakery, or the 'boulangerie' as my dad would call it.

It was the Starbucks store on the corner of Twinford Street two blocks from the Astoria Library that brought upon that turbulent wave of nostalgia. Back home, my best friend Saskia had a totally inane obsession in which she'd attempt to sample Every Single Drink on the Starbucks menu. And as if it wasn't enough that Kiki would be practically dying after inhaling seventeen almond cloud soy vanilla whatevers, she'd drag me along in an attempt to diagnose me with diabetes too.

But sometimes, it was nice. We'd grab a regular drink like a flat white -no sugar, cream, sprinkles, clouds, rainbows, sunshine and whatever the hell Starbucks usually pumped into their drinks albeit still disguised with some hideous name- and we'd walk back to my parents' bakery. Once Kiki left, I'd read, curled up in a weathered corner of the Chesterfield beside a roaring fire during winter, or in the warmer months, sit in the window seat on the third floor sipping my coffee and basking in the golden showers of sunlight that filtered in.

That is why I am so utterly pedantic about my spot in the library. Is it so wrong for me to sit and read beneath the glittering ribbons of sun that drift into the Astoria Library? Is it so wrong for me to pretend that I am far far away from here, back home?

Also. Why is he here? I mean, Astoria University has multiple libraries, each equally as opulent as the town library, so why isn't Rafe at one of those? I mean, I have my own ... personal reasons.

I can't tell Archer any of these thoughts that rush through my head. As if! So I simply scowl at him, roll my eyes and slump in one of the other armchairs at the table. Although it isn't the prime position to daydream in, a few delicate tendrils of sunlight still reach out and caress my hair and face with their golden warmth.

*

My satchel rests upon the table creating a kind of wall, or perhaps a barricade between Rafe and I. The inordinate amounts of homework I have means that I can have absolutely no distractions. Not even in the form of a gorgeous dark haired Adonis. Ugh. I can't even believe that I actually just thought that! It's Oscar Wilde's fault. For the last few weeks I've been going to bed dreaming of nothing but my English Literature (my elective subject aside from history) essay on Dorian Gray. And sometimes, just Dorian Gray himself. After first receiving the analytical essay assignment, I'd told myself to refrain from watching the movie of the text as I hadn't wanted to taint, contaminate, the literary version I'd had of Dorian but in the end I'd decided to watch it.