Of Mochas and Macchiatos

one. chalk bodies

Why was I depriving myself of something I wanted anyway?

Initially, I couldn't get over all the differences between the film and the book and I could not stop myself from shouting at the TV that "He's supposed to be blond!" every time Ben Barnes ambled across the screen, but eventually I grew to love it, and the blond-haired Adonis in my mind became a coal-haired Adonis instead. But after such close proximity with Archer -whose eyes, I notice, have trawled over myself and my Oscar Wilde notes more than once-, I've come to the conclusion that the director should have cast another rich boy instead...

Grrrrr. No distractions!

*

After twenty minutes of 'study', my essay had gone nowhere. It was quite obviously Archer's fault. Why is it that he can read and study unafflicted by distractions? Whatever. After so much mental torment over Wilde's intentions, I did deserve a little break. My coffee had still remained untouched and the gorgeously light fluffy fragrance of a "Cinnamon Cloud Macchiato" gently wafted out of the cup invoking memories of Kiki and her crazy coffee debacles. (Thank the coffee gods that Starbucks gets "extra-hot" orders correct!) We never did get to try the Cinnamon Cloud Macchiato. Not together anyway... I missed her. Lately, I'd often reminisced about how she'd often declare that I ought to write detailed analytical essays about every "exquisite" coffee I ever had. Somehow, I didn't think that a ridiculously overpriced and overhyped Starbucks drink -even one made in Astoria- was going to flip the world of café culture. Anyway, it wasn't like I, a college student studying a an arts degree and majoring in Anthropology, had the time to wax poetic about my caffeinated beverages.

Sighing quietly and smiling to myself as I thought of Kiki's probable reactions to my macchiato ("Absolutely disgusting, minus 3 out of 10, a disgrace to the name of coffee!" Or perhaps on the other end of the spectrum "Pure brilliance; this is what dreams are made of!") I held the still warm paper cup in my hand before letting go and leaving it on the table. I just wanted to take a few more minutes to enjoy the anticipation of having my drink. Reaching for the light paper bag that holds my croissant, I see Rafe look up from his MacBook. His dark eyes widen, his brow deepens in a glare and he suddenly sweeps his arm out in front of me, snatching at an ebony embossed MontBlanc fountain pen and knocking my pastry to the floor in a puff of white powdered sugar.

The almond encrusted croissant tumbles out of its bag to lie in a mess on the hardwood floor. A sheer coating of icing sugar laces the top of the newly crumpled paper that had contained it a few minutes prior, and a smattering of dust motes, disturbed by the sudden falling pastry, dance about in the air for a few seconds before coming to rest on the sorry sight that had once been my breakfast.

"Why the hell did you do that?!" I demand, not even caring that Mrs Barnes, the snarky and utterly ancient librarian, would hear my shouting.

The way that Rafe narrows his eyes at me intensifies their darkness as he glowered. "Excuse me? You were about to take my pen!" The keys that jangled incessantly around Barnes' neck clattered more chaotically as she rose from behind her desk at the front of the library.

"Your pen? Why would I want to take your pen?! What could I possibly want with it? I wanted my breakfast! Look at what you've done to it!" I seethe.

Rafe peers, appraisingly, at my croissant. "It looks a bit like a dog's breakfast to me?" And he raises his eyebrows ever so slightly. I flush at the insinuation that I am a bitch and, ironically, nearly growl at him but he quickly changes the subject. "Anyway, what was it, like, three dollars?"

Of course, he doesn't worry about money. Rich Boy Archer has never had to concern himself with the cost of living, but I, on the other hand, do. A university student, far away from her family, juggling two jobs as well as her studies. Life is hard for me. Not that Archer, or anybody else who actually belongs in this town, will understand. And actually, the croissant was $23. I'd dashed into the quaint little bakery, Monroe's, across the road from Starbucks because their croissants, although exorbitantly overpriced, made me nostalgic for home. Not that I'd get to taste any such memories today.