Coffee, Sex and Law Page 2

  “Well alright. I’ll tell you what the connection is. It’s been over a year since you went out with a man, Zoe! If it’s not because you’re scared, then why is it?”

  “Disgust, maybe?” I attempt.

  “Men disgust you?” she asks, her arms crossed.

  “Do I need to remind you how things ended with Gaspard?”

  "Who?”

  “Gaspard! My ex. Remember?”

  “Of course I remember. I was messing with you. If only he would disappear from our memories... Seriously, Zoe, that idiot is not worth a vow of chastity.”

  “You’re exaggerating. I’m not that bad!” I argue.

  “Sorry, but one year without sex? What would you call it?”

  Lisa has a gift for summarizing a situation in just a few, harsh words. But it's always with compassion and the best of intentions. So it's impossible to hold it against her. It’s her special gift.

  “Why don’t you say it a little louder? I wouldn’t want my customers to miss out on all the details of my crazy sex life,” I mutter to shut her up.

  “Alright, so let's recap: Gaspard is a total dick, a greedy careerist, and a tightwad. He dumped you as soon as he realized you wouldn't help him get ahead in his career, and it’s the best thing that could have happened to you.”

  “Accurate description,” I agree.

  “Is he really worth swearing off sex?” she reiterates in her drill sergeant’s voice.

  “No!” I agree, laughing.

  “No, who?”

  “No, Boss!”

  We giggle like stupid teenagers for a few seconds. There’s no one like Lisa to lift my spirits and help me get some perspective. It’s too soon for her to do the same for herself. After all, a divorce is like a bereavement, with its own period of mourning: a mandatory phase you can’t skip or disturb. I didn’t come up with that, it was Freud.

  “Well, I need to get back to it. Do you want something to drink? It’s on me,” I offer.

  “Okay, but to go. I have to head out.”

  “Chai rooibos with sugar, coming right up.”

  “What a memory!” she applauds.

  I walk away, giving her a wink.

  ***

  Lisa has barely walked out the door when 00S appears. Without realizing it, a smile lights up my face when I see him. But my grin quickly disappears when I realize he isn’t alone. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him sit down at a table with his friends and two snooty-looking women in clubbing clothes. Judging by their booming laughter and tired eyes, it was a wild night.

  “You want me to go take the order at table 2?” Victor asks impatiently, interrupting my sneaky observation moment.

  “No, I’ll get it.”

  I slap on my best smile and head toward the loud carousers with confidence. 00S seems a bit removed from the show being put on by his drinking pals.

  My heart begins racing. The closer I get to the table, the more my confidence wanes. Why? Am I flustered from seeing him again? Or am I thrown off because he’s not alone?

  Relax, Zoe. 00S is a customer, nothing more.

  “Hello,” I say. “May I take your order?”

  The two bimbos suddenly stop talking and look me over from head to toe.

  “A vodka with a twist of lemon,” one replies, causing everyone else to crack up.

  I decide to play along with their stupid joke, pretending to write down the order.

  “Seriously, do you serve vodka here?” Boozer Barbie asks, gawking like an idiot.

  “No, not at 8 a.m. But I have just the right coffee for you. Trust me,” I say with a fake smile.

  I write down the coffee orders of 00S’s friends, as loaded with alcohol as their female companions, and then I turn to him.

  “And for you? The usual?”

  I ask the question with a much colder tone than I intended.

  Why am I suddenly so curt with him?

  Because this situation reminds you of Gaspard.

  Dear Gaspard, whom I caught early one morning cooing in the arms of a girl just like the ones sitting in front of me. In a coffee shop. The one we met at almost every day. I had spent the night worrying while Mister Suit & Tie was out frolicking in a club. He was drunk as a skunk and dumped me right then, in public. I have never been so humiliated, so insulted in my life.

  “Yes, please,” he confirms in a friendly voice.

  “The usual? Does that mean you come to this shithole often?” one of his friends jokes.

  “Yeah, pretty often,” he says, letting him criticize my sanctuary without another word.

  A feeling of exasperation and irritation begins to climb up my spine.

  “The waitress’s apron is pretty sexy!” Buzzed Barbie jokes, thinking she’s whispering. She giggles like an idiot with her friend. As for 00S, I catch him smiling at the stupid comment.

  I go back to my counter, clenching my jaw, repeating silently like a mantra that they are customers. No scandals, that’s the rule. I try to stop them, but drunken Gaspard’s hurtful and violent words come back without warning. ”Have you looked at yourself? Did you really think this could work? Could you imagine me taking you to dinner with my clients? My boss? A little coffee shop waitress! Who wants to hear about that? I would have been ashamed!”

  I swallow my pride to deal with these clubbers who are sending me back to my past despite myself. I hear little bits of their conversation, the two Barbies’ nasal voices reaching me behind the bar. I learn that they met at the club and they danced and drank all night. They decide they’ll meet up again tonight.

  Ugh, with all the customers milling around, I can't hear the whole conversation to find out who is paired up with whom. Is one of them with 00S? I'm thinking yes. After all, they seem to be just his type. Like Gaspard.

  I take them their order and hand the coffees to the Barbies, waiting for them to taste it.

  “So, what’s so special about this coffee?” Boozer Barbie asks.

  “It’s Cuban. It was stored with manure for a few months before it was roasted. That’s what gives it such a special taste.”

  I try my best not to smile. I surprise 00S smirking discreetly, while the Barbies try to figure out if I was being serious. I walk away, cracking up silently inside.

  My revenge is short-lived. I'm speechless when Buzzed Barbie gets up from her chair to go sit on 00S’s knees and presses her lips into the neck of the creature who was still my fantasy when I woke up this morning. After a few seconds, he stands up.

  “You’re leaving already?” she asks, pouting.

  “Yeah, I have to go to work.”

  He rummages through his pocket and pulls out some cash, laying it on the table. I watch him say goodbye to his friends. When I hear the little bell on the door, I know he’s gone and hasn’t even looked my way.

  I feel a lump form in my throat. I would have liked to keep my fantasy for a while, the one that visited me every morning, awakening long-buried sensations: completely losing my cool as he walked up, his dark eyes resting on my face, even if I did everything to keep from showing it, my hands clammy, my heart a yo-yo, butterflies in my stomach, an idiotic smile concealed by biting the inside of my cheek, and the taste of blood in my mouth when I bit too hard.

  The lump grows larger. Disappointment. Even my fantasies are doomed to fail. Although, it wasn't really a smart move to fantasize about a guy like him. I need to be realistic. He’s not my type, and I’m not his. And even if I were, a relationship with him would end in heartache. How do I know? Because...

  Gaspard. 00S. They’re all the same.

  3

  Liam

  A strange feeling comes over me when I walk into Temple Coffee to get my morning pick-me-up. Is it because of the waitress’s abnormally cold attitude when I was here with my friends and those two girls yesterday morning? It’s true that I was the only person thinking clear
ly and they said some pretty idiotic things. That’s the last time I come in with my drinking buddies. Especially when they’re dragging along two brainless flirts. I can’t believe one of them just plopped right down on my knees! I’m too old for that kind of bullshit.

  I never should have brought them here. It’s a place I don’t want to share with anyone.

  When I see Zoe, it’s instantaneous. I suddenly feel good.

  Probably because she’s one of the rare constants in the crazy life I lead. A comforting ritual. A sight for sore eyes.

  I watch her as she serves the customers ahead of me. The tension this morning is palpable and I don’t know why.

  The other waiter, Victor, talks to her quietly from time to time, his brow furrowed as if he were angry. Now I understand: the pretty waitress has been scolded by her boss. He soon leaves the premises, obviously furious.

  Good, I’d rather be served by Zoe.

  “Good morning, sir. The usual?” she asks without even looking at me.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  She’s not usually this evasive. I try to make eye contact with her. Nope, not happening. She’s not paying attention to me.

  Barely a few minutes later, she’s holding my cardboard cup stamped “Temple Coffee” in one hand as she tries to secure the lid. Lost in thought, maybe upset by her latest spat with Victor, she starts to get annoyed and tries the age-old technique I like to call “the slam.”

  The cup crumples under the force of her thoughtless gesture. And then she goes for yet another classic, the “drop everything.”

  It all seems to happen in slow motion. All the customers watch with me as the hot liquid explodes into the air. But unlike them, I have a front-row seat. A few drops of coffee burn my face and slide down my neck, causing my spine to contract instantly. Most of the drink spills onto my immaculate white shirt, making it stick to my skin. I’m frozen, my arms limp, unable to move as all the spectators watch in awe. The coffee has formed an impressive black puddle at my feet. Shouldn’t have chosen the XL size this morning. The smell of coffee overwhelms me.

  “Ohhhhh fuck! Shit!” she swears, her hand covering her mouth and a look of terror on her face. “I'm sorry.”

  I watch her rush around the counter to come inspect the damage to my clothes more closely.

  Time stands still. I watch the people around me, still motionless. They are all waiting for my reaction.

  Zoe is as white as a sheet. She looks at the front door in fear, probably terrified that Victor will come back. Luckily for her, he did not witness this fiasco.

  I quickly analyze the situation, and I’m torn between wanting to scream (this is a Dior suit, for Christ’s sake!) and wanting to laugh at this comical situation and her terrified facial expression. And then a third option comes to me naturally: I remain calm, wondering if this is really happening.

  “I'm so sorry, sir. Are you alright? You didn’t get burned, I hope? Oh my God, your suit is a mess...” she says, rubbing her forehead in distress. “I’m sorry, I couldn't close your cup and I pushed too hard. I don't understand what happened, the cups are strong. It’s the first time that’s ever happened to me. And your shirt... It’s worse than your suit. It’s completely soaked! Oh no, oh no, no-no-no. What can I do to make it up to you? Tell me...”

  The jumble of words that comes spilling out of her mouth is impressive and distracting.

  When she finally catches her breath, I take the opportunity to speak up.

  "It’s no big deal, really. Can you just tell me where I could change? I have another shirt in my bag.”

  “Oh? Um... yeah. A place for you to change.”

  “Hurry, your boss is on his way over!” I press.

  She goes pale seeing him approach.

  “Oh shit...” she mutters.

  "What’s going on?” Victor asks.

  “It’s my fault,” I quickly interject. “I’m so sorry, I can be clumsy.”

  The other customers smile when they hear my white lie.

  “Could you show me where I could change?” I repeat, pretending to be embarrassed.

  "Oh, yes, of course.”

  “I'll take over for you here,” Victor says to her.

  Zoe silently mouths “thank you” to me.

  I follow her to a little room at the back of the café. I watch as she picks up a clean towel and wets it under the faucet.

  I haven’t even opened my bag when she turns to face me. She's avoiding my eyes and her embarrassment is obvious. Is it because she's with me alone in this confined space? Do I make her uncomfortable?

  “If you only knew how sorry I am. Why did I try to force the lid on?” she says, shaking her head.

  I stand still, letting her approach me and take my jacket off, which she gently places over the back of a chair. She stands in front of me and starts cleaning my shirt. Her proximity is so delicious that I decide not to remind her I have another shirt.

  “I... Thank you for taking the blame,” she says, carefully dabbing the white coffee-soaked fabric.

  I smile as I think of how pointless her cleaning technique is. But I wouldn’t interrupt this moment with her for anything. I don't let myself analyze why.

  "Oh, it's no big deal."

  I watch her delicate hands work over my torso, becoming intoxicated by her scent rising to meet me from her neck.

  “I’m so sorry,” she insists, now scrubbing the fabric with concentration, taking breaks to dab her forehead with her arm.

  She’s damaging my designer shirt. Instead of pointing that out to her, I observe her every movement. I surprise her a few times as she nibbles her thumb. A habit that reveals how nervous she actually is.

  “I’ll pay for the dry cleaning, of course. And free coffee for a week.”

  I don't reply.

  I resist the temptation to run my hand through her long, silky hair.

  I find her beautiful: her fragility, embarrassment, simplicity.

  “A month?” she offers, obviously worried by my silence.

  “It’s fine for the coffee. A week and we’re even,” I reassure her. "For the dry cleaning, I'll take care of it. Don’t worry about the clothes. It could happen to anyone.”

  She stops and looks at me, smiling, relieved by my pacifist reaction.

  “I think your shirt is ruined,” she announces, nibbling her lower lip.

  “Yeah, I think you’re right about that!” I agree, laughing.

  I’m speechless when she starts working on my pants, kneeling down between my legs.

  Is this a joke? I thought this kind of thing only happened in movies!

  Except there’s nothing funny about the position. On the contrary. The pressure she’s putting on my crotch awakens sensations in my entire body. My imagination becomes quickly uncontrollable. I want her.

  Forbidden thoughts start to creep into my mind. To touch her. Caress her. Kiss her.

  She suddenly stops, as if she had heard my inappropriate thoughts.

  Time stands still for a second, and the noise of the café customers dies down. Here we are, the two of us, completely isolated from the rest of the world.

  I can’t take my eyes off her. She stares back at me.

  Does she realize what she's awakening in me? Does she feel the same desire?

  My guess would be yes, the look in her eyes is growing darker.

  It’s impossible to explain, but we can feel these things.

  The door opens suddenly.

  "Oops, excuse me! Sorry! I’ll... I’ll come back later,” Victor stutters, embarrassed.

  Zoe and I exchange a confused look. I quickly gather my thoughts and the electric charge slowly dissipates.

  I crack up laughing when I realize what just happened. Me, standing, facing the door. Her, kneeling, right at crotch level.

  “Umm... Come here. Stand up,” I say, helping her to her feet. “I
think your coworker got the wrong idea.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks, confused.

  “I mean... You, on your knees. And me...” I try to explain through my laughter.

  When she understands that Victor thought he was interrupting oral sex, she turns bright red.

  “Oh, no!”

  When she sees how amused I am, she also busts out laughing, holding her face in her hands. Her laugh is clear and crisp, touching.

  A soft feeling comes over me: the usual Zoe, natural and full of life. She’s back.

  Then, suddenly, without my understanding why or how, everything changes.

  I take her wrists, removing them from her face, not really knowing what I'm doing. We look at each other with intensity so strong, our smiles turn to a burning stare. Her hazelnut eyes darken again. The atmosphere is tense. Deliciously so. As for my heart, it's pounding forcefully in my chest. I feel dizzy.

  What is happening to me?

  I take a strand of her long, wavy brown hair and tuck it behind her ear delicately.

  There is no blood reaching my brain; I'm incapable of rational thought.

  I run my thumb over her cheek, trying to figure out if I can go further.

  And is that what I want? Is it what she wants?

  Yes, it's obvious.

  Her breathing quickens to meet the rhythm of mine. She tilts her head slightly, leaning into the palm of my hand, her eyelids closed.

  I feel a gentle heat progressively spread throughout my body, the blood pumping in my veins.

  She opens her eyes as my lips approach hers, just an inch or two away. I feel her breath on my mouth. Pressing her hand to the back of my neck, she pulls me toward her, giving me permission to carry out my desire: to kiss her.

  I can’t help but moan as our lips meet. Hers are full, soft, and burning hot.

  She moans as well as our tongues begin to dance, delicately at first and then with passion. The kiss is tender and intense at the same time.

  I take her by the waist to pull her closer. I want to feel her body against mine. The effect is immediate. Her breathing, as quick as mine, becomes even quicker as she becomes aware of my erection pressing against her.