Heal Me

Chapter Five

The coffee shop we supported was directly across the street from our building. I trudged through the snow, cursing the fact that I'd chosen to wear suede boots, and fell into line behind six or seven other late-night caffeine addicts. The ambiance was wintery and jovial, with comfortable jazz playing in the background. It made me ponder the relation between music and human behavior. Like how there was always oldies playing in the grocery stores, rock in the mall, and classical in elevators. Must be something to do with Pavlov's Theory. But it bothered me to think I might be being manipulated.

Finally, it was my turn to order.

"Tall, no whip, non-fat, half-chocolate mocha, please." I rolled my eyes. "That's not for me."

"Anything else?" The robotic blonde across the counter was writing with a felt tip on a white cup.

"Yeah. Do you still have the holiday specials?" I asked.

"Um..." She looked confused. Either the word 'specials' or the word 'holiday' had rendered her completely dysfunctional.

"I mean, I know that it's January, but I really liked the caramel one..." I hinted, hoping that would be enough information.

"We have the peppermint mocha?" she offered hopefully, pen poised.

"Peppermint is not caramel," I told her.

She thought about that. "We have white chocolate."

"Still not caramel."

She rolled her eyes. "It's basically caramel."

What is happening? I narrowed my eyes, unsure of how to respond.

"They're both made with sugar and cream," she informed me in such a snotty tone that I wanted to reach across the counter and poke her in the eye. But I didn't.

Instead, I sighed. "Then water and hydrogen peroxide are basically the same thing."

She stared, blankly, pen still waiting to write down whatever drink I finally ordered.

"Because they're both made with hydrogen and oxygen?" I supplied.

"What?" She asked.

I was beyond irritated. "Fine. White chocolate. Venti, whip cream, sprinkles. If that's my only choice."

The last of my words were meant to be under my breath, but apparently the person standing behind me had been listening. Just as the barista was about to write my order, a rough, Boston accent came from over my shoulder, saying very calmly, "I think she wants the Butter Praline you had for Thanksgiving."

The girl smiled. "Oh, that one. Sure we still have that."

I turned to thank whoever thought he was doing me a favor, and my voice caught in my throat. The guy was a masterpiece, with beautiful wavy black hair and eyes of such a light blue they were practically transparent.

"Thanks," I muttered.

"No problem."

As I turned away, change in hand, I heard him order. "Quad Mocha - doesn't really matter what size." Only it sounded like, 'dos'n really madda wut size.'

"Sir, you have to specify a size."

He chuckled. It was a warming, sarcastic sound. "Fine. Tall."

The girl went about ringing him up. I tried not to watch him, but it was impossible. He was a walking contradiction in military boots, cargo pants, and a wool coat. He could have been a thug or a lawyer. The wallet he pulled from his back pocket had a skull burned into the leather, but the ring on his right hand was an elegant band of gold.