Of Mochas and Macchiatos

thirty-four. rules

"What do you want, Angel?" Says Rafe.

"Uhm. A medium cappuccino. With a shot of hazelnut please." I cast Rafe a look. He doesn't look so tired today so maybe not a long black? "And a medium, uh, double strength flat white?" He gives me an approving look and I smile.

The barista scribbles everything down and we pay before retreating to a quiet corner of the room. I didn't really like him and the way that he overzealously pours our coffees, showing off immensely. He had kind of an intense aura and I say so to Rafe who agrees. But I think he only says so because the guy winked at me.

We collect the coffees when they're done. 'Angel' is written with a thick untidy scrawl upon my paper cup. There's even a halo and two scrappy tree-like fronds that stick out from the word. I guess they're angel wings?

Rafe peers at his cup, trying to discern the writing. "I think it says dude? Or devil maybe?" I say uncertainly. Rafe scoffs at that.

"Evangeline," he replies peering at my cup and snorting at the rather poor drawing skills of the barista. He gestures at his own cup. "This clearly says 'douche.'"

"What, no." But a smile tugs at my lips. He's right, of course. I guess the barista really didn't like him. I snap a photo on my phone of Rafe holding up the cup -with a seriously unimpressed expression- and I send it to Maria to laugh about.

"This coffee tastes like dirt," he grumbles and I laugh aloud at that.

"Well, what do you expect? It was just ground this morning!" And I point at the sign through the glass storefront. His irritated expression fades when I say that and he laughs too, before dumping his barely touched coffee into a nearby bin.

When Rafe's not looking, I load the photo I'd just taken of him into my Korean selfie app and select the demon filter so that he has little red devil horns and a tail. Then I make that his contact image. Cute.

We walk to class and I don't see him until the end of the day. I'm working at the bookshop and Noah and I finally have time alone together. I feel like it hasn't been just him and I for ages and the comfortable silence that settles among us as he studies and I put out new books is serene. Tranquil, even. Eventually he finishes studying and I finish sweeping the store and we just sit together talking as he sketches. We talk for forever and then after that, I find myself just staring into space, lost in thought. He says something.

"What?" I say balndly as I snap out of my stupor. My back is pressed against a bookshelf and he is sitting opposite me with his legs stretched out.

"I said, I'm done. Ta-da!" He turns his sketch book towards me and I smile. It's a gorgeous design. So beautiful. A dress, black, strapless. Although the front of the skirt is short, barely knee length, the back spirals out into rectangular pleats layered atop one another. It's dramatic yet elegant. Extravagant yet refined.

And I tell him so. And then, after I interrogate him about the material and the detailing, I sigh, realising a bitter truth. "Oh, Noah. Does that mean I won't be seeing you for ages then?" Whenever he creates a new design, I don't see him for weeks. Sometimes he does work with seamstress and couturiers but he usually prefers to do everything himself.

"Maybe," He says loftily. "Hey, Evie?"

"Mmh hmm." Imagine wearing a dress like that. So gorgeous.

"Would you attend the show?"

"What? What! Oh my gosh Noah! Is this...?"

"Yep. One of the biggest fashion weeks in the world." Oh my gosh, Noah! I feel so immensely proud of my best friend.