flushed cheeks

(ii.)

"Flushed Cheeks"

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° ° °

(ii.)

The second time I saw her was also at the coffee shop. I had decided to stop by after a late night and a long day of studying and work, hoping a bit of caffeine would help me through the chores I had been putting off all week. My apartment needed some attention, and the neglect had to come to an end otherwise it would begin to affect my own state of mind.

She was not working this time, I realized as I stepped inside. Instead, she was sitting at a little two-person table, a still-steaming cup of something clasped in one hand and a book held in the other. She had one knee pulled into her body, leaning back in her seat. She looked comfortable and so freaking beautiful in what looked to be a little dress or romper, blue with white stripes. An angel, she had to be, all gold and white and soft, baby blue.

Her hair was pulled into a messy knot atop her head, strands falling loose to frame the roundness of her cheeks and brush over her bare shoulders. There looked to be a thin sweater or cardigan draped over the back of her chair.

She looked up when the bell over the door rang out. It was probably out of habit, but when her gaze locked with mine, she smiled.

Cheeks warming rapidly, I looked away and made my way to the register.

"Good morning," the person taking orders said. He was the usual face I saw when I came into the shop, the youngest son of the owner, but instead of his usual happy demeanor, he seemed a little agitated. I assumed it had to do with the morning rush that had just ended.

I offered him a smile. I am not sure if it made its way onto my face or not. I never was great at forcing expressions. "Morning," I mumbled back.

"What can I get for you?" His face was pleasant enough, but there was still an underlying negativity to his voice that had whatever hint of smile there was falling from my face.

"A plain iced coffee, please. With honey." I tried to keep some cheer in my voice, reaching for the card in my pocket to make the exchange as quick as possible. "For here, please."

I had forgotten to wash my cup this time around, and I did not want to have to throw something away. A little break would not be too bad, though, would it? I had yet to enjoy my coffee inside the shop, and there was a spot that drew my eye since the first time I came in. A little two-person table placed in the corner of two large windows with plants hanging all around.

It was the weekend, anyway, and I had been up late with an essay. Why not relax a little? Or try to.

The guy—I glanced at his name tag to see Lucas printed there—took my debit card and ran it through the machine. "Have that right out," he said, handing the plastic back.

I nodded and went straight for the table with all the plants. It seemed like it might have been more for decoration purposes than anything. It was a small round table, black metal shaped into lacey patterns. Two chairs were on either side, made to match but with cushions of a dusky rose satin-like material.

One of the plants had vines long enough to brush the table from where it had been hung. I found myself messing with the leaves while waiting for my coffee. They were soft under my fingertips. Smooth. Almost waxy.

"Not many people sit at this table."

My heart skipped in my chest, and I nearly toppled over in the chair. I probably would have if I had not gripped the table so hard.