chapter three - qahua
[(قهوة) meaning coffee]
song of the chapter ; lyin king - jhené aiko
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FARAH STARED AT the pouring rain with irritation. She never enjoyed such weather, that was one of the reasons that she moved from Seattle to Los Angeles. Through the glass of the window of the coffee shop, she could see the puddles gathering in the holes of the pavement, the water reflecting the pink of the sky.
"Stop daydreaming, Farah." Maggie snapped, her eyes glaring at the short girl in front of her who always seemed to be in a daze. Maggie's wrinkled lips that had been painted an obnoxious shade of ruby red were pressed into a thin line, a clear look of aggravation on her face. "Table five needs a new coffee," And with that, she turned on her heel with her hooked nose pointed high in the air while she strutted away.
"Lord," Farah mumbled under her breath, taking Maggie's orders and quickly whipping up a new caramel macchiato and heading towards table five, trying hard not to trip in the stupid heels that were part of the uniform. But instead of rolling her eyes in annoyance she simply plastered on a smile and balanced the drink on the tray.
The men at table five were loud and sleazy and clearly had no clue what an 'inside voice' meant. This cafe was a quiet establishment that she often enjoyed, relishing in the silence that the bookworms that came here provided. When she cleared her throat in impatience, the men looked up in surprise.
They hadn't seen a woman so attractive, but their stares were more disrespectful than flattering. Her figure was seen clearly under the ridiculous dress that Maggie had insisted that she would wear. She placed the coffee down on the table, taking the old mug that had caused the complaint away.
"What's your name, pretty girl?" One of the men asked, his age was quite visibly way over her's and it was creepy to have someone at least ten years older than her be so open to flirt.
"Amelia," She lied, beginning to get more uncomfortable as the seconds ticked by. Farah carefully placed the macchiato down on the table and was turning around when she felt a hand.
On her ass.
"Why don't you give me your number, Cocoa?" Farah cringed at the nickname that was so obviously derived from her deep skin tone. She slapped his hand away sharply and gave him a menacing glare.
"No thank you and keep your hands to yourself, sir. Enjoy your coffee." As she strode away she heard him mumble a derogatory term under his breath but she chose to ignore it. As she returned to her spot behind the bar, Maggie frowned at her shaken appearance.
"What happened?"
Farah let out a sigh, "Table five is particularly hand-sy."
Maggie folded her arms over her large chest with a frown. "Well if you'd lose some damn weight and be skinnier like other girls, maybe we could get you a new uniform so you didn't look so teasing."
Farah wasn't fat, she was just... average. She couldn't help the way the shape of her butt was visible through her work attire, but her boss didn't want to comply and instead shamed her for the way she was shaped. Instead of going off, Farah bit her tongue to avoid losing her job. The pay was alright and she knew this was the only place that would employ her.
She began to drift off into her thoughts when something prevented her from doing so.
Her stomach dropped.
Farah could smell it more clearly now, the familiarity. Clean linen flooded her senses, making her more attentive and putting her on high alert. Rather than the scent being overwhelming, it awakened her nerves and left her a jittery mess from behind the counter.
And then she spotted its source. Stood in all of his glory was Israfil, his hair a sopping inky mess on top of his forehead, tendrils falling into his silver eyes. She supposed she hadn't noticed it before, but he had a towering figure, that of around six-foot-five. He looked extremely out of place in this cafe that housed irksome self-entitled hipsters and businessmen and women from the rain.
She was so entranced, in fact, that her mouth slightly dropped open at the sight of him. The man was truly and utterly ethereal; a pleasant kind of oddity that bordered an orphic peculiarity. Nonetheless, he began to shrug off his soaking leather jacket and start walking towards the register.
Israfil had quite honestly never felt so neurotic in his entire life. The rings on his hands clanked together as his fingers drummed against the marble counter of the register, craning his neck to what seemed like his search for a cashier when in reality he was looking for the girl that he had pulled away from a cliff the previous day.
"Farah," Maggie called from behind a coffee machine. "Go help that young man while I make this mocha that you so obviously can't make yourself." She instructed.
Farah felt like letting out a slew of curse words but decided to keep her mouth shut. She took her time to walk to the cash register, wiping her clammy palms on her small apron. Maybe if she pretended as if she didn't recognize him, he wouldn't say anything?
"What can I get for you today, sir?" Absentmindedly, she began to toy with a loose thread that hung off of her uniform.
Israfil took a moment to appreciate how beautiful she looked. Her hair was a curly mess as always, but he thought it was adorable- a symbol of innocence. And although her smile was breathtaking, displaying the deep dimples that imprinted her cheeks, he felt as if there was something off.
When his gut told him that there was something wrong, he was typically right. But he couldn't shake the feeling of trepidation and apprehension that settled in his stomach no matter how hard he tried. "What would you recommend?" Israfil asked, his eyes scanning the menu and then landing on his mate.
Farah looked up, her eyes meeting his own, catching him mid-stare. For a moment she found herself becoming lost in the mixture of silver and cerulean, but cleared her throat and forced herself to look down. "Depends what you like, but I like to think most people are like the beverage they drink."
He raised a dark eyebrow, a small smile growing on his lips at her comment, "Like how?"
Farah looked up and gestured to the meek girl in the corner snuggled up with a mug and a Rupi Kaur book in the corner of the cafe. "Her for example. She's the quietest, most consistent customer here. She's very kind and always has an optimistic outlook. She drinks chamomile."
She then gestured to the businessman sat on a bar stool typing furiously on his keyboard, taking sips of his drink while he took bites of his bagel. "Or him- he orders an iced coffee with soy milk in a plastic cup with a straw because his Armani suit is too expensive to be stained with coffee. He's picky and normally very irritable, especially if I mess up his order."
He turned back to her with a grin spread across his lips, "And what kind of drink do you think I should have?"
Farah's face felt very hot all of a sudden, "Black coffee with a dash of cream."
"Why not just black coffee?"
She shrugged, "Because black coffee alone is too overwhelming, too strong and too intimidating. The cream emphasizes it's flavor rather than overpowering it. See, I think you're strong and intimidating but you're very kind."
"But you've only met me once before, and that was yesterday, the circumstances weren't exactly ideal." He pointed out.
She clenched her fist at the memory of the previous day. Farah shrugged once again, "I don't know- I just happen to be good at reading auras, and that's yours."
Israfil smiled, "Alright, then I'll have one black coffee with a dash of milk." His smile left her in awe for a moment, but then she realized she was practically ogling him and told herself to stop being so flirty. She had a boyfriend.
Keeping this and her manners in mind, she returned the gesture, but it was genuine this time. "That'll be two dollars and eighty-five cents please."
He pulled out a five dollar bill and handed it to her, "Keep the change."
Farah's heart warmed even though the gesture was small. "Thank you, take a seat. I'll bring your order soon."
Isra nodded and went to go sit down, frowning when he saw Maggie shove her out of the way and began scolding her for talking too much. His frown only furthered when he saw Farah's gloomy expression, her lips tilted downwards and her eyebrows drawn together. Moments later, she walked out of the coffee making station, balancing a large white mug.
He found it hard to concentrate because of her work attire, a knee-length black dress with a white apron tied to it paired with black shoes, and although he was enjoying the view, a group of abhorrent men seemed to as well.
Israfil sent them a menacing glare that had their mouths shutting and their eyes downcast within less than a second, he almost smirked at their frightened reaction. "Your coffee, sir."
"Israfil." He corrected.
She stood back, "Pardon?"
"My name is Israfil."
The name sounded exotic rolling off his tongue, the way it rolled off his tongue so easily. The name had to be Arabic, maybe even Hebrew or Persian. "Israfil." She smiled. He shivered at the way she said his name, but his thoughts were interrupted by her speaking up. "Enjoy your coffee," She began to stride away, but his hand reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her back.
"Stay, why don't you sit and talk for a bit?" He gestured to the empty seat beside him.
Her hand reached up with the intent of moving a curly strand out of her face, but in the process, her foundation smudged, allowing a glimpse of the purple discoloration underneath. His silver irises narrowed at it, his anger quickly spiking. "Who did that to you?" Israfil couldn't prevent the question leaving his mouth.
"I-, uh-" Farah stumbled over her words.
How would she get out of this mess?
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1700 words bitch who am i
oof what yall think ?? lmk in the comments (: