Fantasie-Impromptu

I. Medium Roast, Two Cups of Milk, and Extra Sugar

The strong scent of coffee, the distant whirring of cold air conditioner, the faint melodies of piano music echoing through the walls of a familiar café. It's late in the afternoon and they're playing Beethoven today, that's a bit odd. They've been playing nothing but Schumann all week.

These thoughts all dance through Fryderyk's mind as he takes a step closer to the cashier, a short line of customers slowly forming from his back as with little to no effort he reaches the counter and a little "May I take your order, sir?" is heard.

Fryderyk Chopin, a man a bit not over 5 feet and 7, is a regular at this café. He's been coming here ordering the exact same thing for the past three years and heck, all the baristas know exactly when he arrives and what he wants, it was practically muscle memory at this point.

But to say that now of all days, the guy at the counter asks for his order only after three years of loyalty, believe him when he tells you, he is at the slightest bit, very shocked.

"Hm? Oh-umm well." Fryderyk was taken aback and suddenly surprise was a stone caught in his throat, keeping words of thought at bay. He never usually engaged in any type of social interaction before other than the casual "here's your order" and whatnot, but the ordering a drink part was almost always skipped.

Perhaps he was a bit shy right then and there, but naming an order he'd usually get without saying a word? Even that was already hard enough for him today. So Fryderyk did nothing but pause.

"Oh! Are you new here? Maybe I can interest you in some of our café specials, sir?" the man at the counter said, a palpable smile spread across his lips, eyes sparkling with childish innocence and cheeks just a tad bit tinted with warmth. "Uh- no. I uh, I'll just take a medium roast, two cups of milk, and some extra sugar please." Fryderyk manages to utter, maybe a bit too fast, but luckily the barista catches on to it.

The barista only hums and nods with a smile as Fryderyk takes a number and readies to find an empty table, only, the voice starts to sound again, "Wait! I uh, I'm going to need your name, sir? For your order?" that smile still intact and something about that grin sort of puts poor Fryderyk's mind off in a bit of a stir. Totally unintentional, but real nonetheless.

"You can just write Chopin." Fryderyk says with a tough act despite the disorientation, eyes deep and his glare unintentionally so dagger esque.

He furrows his eyebrows and walks away, beelines into his usual spot in the café: by the window at the furthest corner. Fryderyk actually enjoys the glimmer of light there from the outside at that table. In the late afternoon, it wouldn't be too sunny and the corner was far enough so he shouldn't have to deal with any more people than necessary.

He plops down to his seat, brows still furrowed as he lands into a slouch, and a long sigh escapes his lips.

"What's up with him?" the barista that had entertained him earlier, who is now so obviously stealing glances at Fryderyk, tries whispering to his shift partner, Hector Berlioz, who was currently brewing up some more orders. "Who? Chopin?" Berlioz asks in reply.

"Yeah, him. He looks so... Sad? Angry? Sangry?"

"You know Franz, I really think that sometimes it's just best you shut up."

He scoffs at this, "What do you mean?" the man says, feigning disdain.

"Sangry? Really?"

The guy, apparently called Franz, chuckles heartily at this, a toothy grin and his eyes turning into upward crescents as his shoulders bounce just the slightest bit up and down with every giggle that escapes his mouth. Fryderyk catches a brief glimpse of this, but immediately looks away.