Sunflower Café

20

–H

     "Froggy, you made it!" Amaya greeted, a warm smile etched on her lips.

     Harry couldn't help smiling back, pearly teeth and dimples on display, as he admired the petite woman that approached him clad in a black apron. The garment had a bulging front pocket embroidered with a delicate sunflower, where he noticed a packet of Marlboro poked out along with her phone and a pair of sunglasses. Underneath, she wore a charcoal grey, cropped-top over a white, long-sleeved shirt, as well as black, ripped jeans and white sneakers. Her hair was tied back in a messy bun atop her head, a few curls broken free to fall past her eyes.

     "Of course I did, princess," Harry said.

As Amaya stood before him under a ray of afternoon sun, Harry realized her complexion contained the same hollowness of the previous day under a thin layer of smudged mascara and fading concealer. A hint of makeup was present in her face to bronze away the paleness, but Harry could see the chips on the surface, and noticed right away the pain she so desperately tried to camouflage.

     "Alright, well, follow me," she ushered him, leading him through a café void of customers and workers, towards the door he'd always seen her disappear through. "We'll be doing it today. Be grateful, I had to wrestle to fuck out of Sandra to convince her. I don't wanna be stuck here tomorrow afternoon; I've got plans and an actual life—which apparently, she does not."

     "You do?" Harry asked. They passed through the door to an overly-clean, silver kitchen where rows of pots and pans hung from the ceiling over a long island situated in the center of the room. "What are your plans?"

     Amaya looked at him to answer and Harry noticed her bloodshot eyes. He was about to comment on it when a disembodied voice cut through the air, "Puñeta, Amaya, avanza que no tengo todo el santo día."

     Harry spun to face the speaker, finding a slender woman hovering over the stove and clad in the same black apron as Amaya. He couldn't make her out as she faced away, but his eyes traveled down her back from her blue-black hair to her white training shoes, and he could tell she wore a hard-set face before even seeing her.

     "Ay, nena cálmate que ya llegué. Deja de joder," Amaya retorted, and Harry's jaw hit the floor.

     "Is that Spanish?" he asked to no one in particular, as Amaya had left his side to go scold the cooking woman.

     They began to argue in a language Harry couldn't understand, hands flying about and clipped ripostes bouncing between them, before Amaya turned with a set jaw and a furious gaze towards Harry.

     "Harold," she smiled through clenched teeth. "Meet my ever-lovely chef, Sandra."

     Amaya tugged on Sandra's arm to make her turn, causing a stream of Spanish curses to leave her mouth among a heavy, "Don't touch me."

     Sandra was a timelessly beautiful woman, olive skin under midnight hair. Her eyes—a piercing grey—scrutinized Harry as they ran him over, a scold permanent on her lips. She was all sharp edges, protruding cheekbones and a cutting jaw under big eyes and thick eyebrows. He noticed her bony hands were balled up, nails digging into skin—as were Amaya's. Sandra's towering height over her was almost comical, but the menacing stare in Amaya's eyes was enough to even them out.

     Harry cleared his throat to mask the nervousness and spoke, "Hello, I'm Harry."

     "Sí, lo sé," Sandra responded before turning, and Harry knitted his eyebrows confused.

     "She said she knows. You have to excuse her, she only speaks Spanish," Amaya explained, stepping forward and collecting the ingredients scattered atop the counter in a neat pile. "Don't worry, not much she says is important anyways."