Wanted: Undead or Alive

Hot Apple Cider

My single financial splurge was my daily cup of cider.

With my tailpipe rattling a little looser each day, my phone two days from the shut-off date, and my Visa card maxed out, I considered skipping the cider.

Screw that. If I couldn't even have a freaking cup of cider, what made life worth living? Surely, I didn't exist just to work the front desk for forty hours a week and hide from bill collectors.

I parked illegally, blocking the fire hydrant in front of Earthform Coffee, and took a minute to gather whatever loose change I could find from the cup holders and floorboards. Inside, I savored the balmy warmth and rich fragrance. The heels of my boots made the cutest little tapping noises against the ceramic tile floor. I was feeling pretty good about my most recent DIY attempt at a shaggy haircut and two-tone black and pink dye job. "Your shop might be the best place on earth," I said.

Mandrake Earthform folded his long arms on top of the pastry case and rested his scruffy chin on them. His long braid hung over one toned shoulder. His brown eyes exactly matched the shade of the daily special brew. When he grinned, women's skirts inched upward.

At least, I know mine did.

"You could stay here and make pastries by my side."

"I'd burn them, for sure. I'm a terrible cook." He'd been making offers like this on the regular since we were both in the fifth grade. A couple of times I'd taken him up on it. The relationship never stuck.

"I don't care," he said.

Why the hell did he have to be so cute? "We're not well suited to permanence."

"We could do better, learn from our mistakes," he said.

"Seems like there should be more to life than an endless stream of incredibly stressful lessons." I fished $3.47 in coins out of the pocket of my jeans and made a neat little pile of them on the sales counter. "One spiced hot cider, and a continued friendship with occasional benefits, please."

He moved on, as he always did, turning to make my drink without further comment on that subject.

This was his typical MO, and it's what made me think that, despite the frequent proposals of marriage and domestic bliss, he was as content with our casual arrangement as I was. 

"My mom wants me to help her open a dispensary," he said as he slipped a protective recycled-cardboard sleeve over my cup. "Maybe life is all about smoking pot and howling at the moon. Seems to work for her."

"She could finally do legally what she's been doing behind closed doors all her life."

"Maybe."

When I took the drink, the heat seeped into my freezing cold hands. "You sound doubtful."

"She's good at growing it and better at smoking it. I have my doubts about her showing up to work every day, managing a staff, ordering supplies, keeping up with all the red tape."

"If anyone knows what it takes to keep a place going, it's you."

He scoffed. "I'm just an idiot who opened a coffee shop at the beginning of a pandemic."

"But here you are, still in business, post-pandemic." It was more than half a dozen other local restaurants could claim. "Maybe you could convince your mom to apply at that place on M thirty-four. She could be a plant tender or something. It would be less pressure than owning her own business. Tell her it would be a good way to get experience before launching her own enterprise."

Tiny crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. "It's a good plan."

"I'm full of those. Too bad I have a crappy track record of following through with them."