What’s This?

Boyd

Today has been the most boring day at this job since I started. The tips are usually garbage on Saturdays unless there’s some kind of street festival or parade happening, but the worst part is the amount of time alone to think about everything else I could be accomplishing.

When the door opens and a muscular blonde woman walks in, I’m both relieved and annoyed that she is interrupting my inventory reporting. I make her a black coffee, then attempt to refocus on my paperwork. When the door chimes again a minute later, I never would have guessed it would be casual Sophie with a timid look on her face. Dressed in dark jeans and an oatmeal-coloured cashmere sweater, she is almost hard to recognize—or she would be if I hadn’t committed the curves of her cheekbones and arch of her almond eyes to memory. A departure from the business-savvy woman I’ve seen every time before. Still as captivating. Still unavailable.

It doesn’t take me long to remember that she was here not too long ago, holding hands with and sharing intimate conversations with the man she says she’s serious about. Our confusing dynamic isn’t confusing as long as I remember that truth. But then she makes me laugh, flipping my determination on its head.

Now I’m filling a mixing bowl from our back kitchen with water for Wilson. I haven’t been around many dogs in my life, but I know they need water. I’m not sure if they can eat donuts, but I’ve heard of pup cups enough times to make him one.

I step outside and glance down the road in both directions to see if any customers look like they’re planning to stop in, but it’s clear. Sophie and her friend are having a hushed conversation as I approach. Before I can greet them, Wilson greets me.

He’s not what I expected. He’s pretty small, with copper coloured curly hair that looks like it’s been cut recently.

“Hey there. I brought you something.” I hold up the makeshift dog treat and ask Sophie if it’s okay to give it to him.

She grins and nods.

Wilson is thrilled with his coconut whipped cream, slurping up the entire thing, minus what he splatters on my arm. I pat his head, so he moves closer to my legs, but instead of standing still, he spins in a circle, stopping with his butt against my knee.

“Are you a butt man, Boyd? Because it looks like your furry friend there wants you to scratch his. If you’re offering…” The blonde shrugs one shoulder and looks over at Sophie, who is blushing again.

It’s not often I’m left speechless. I am now. Not because I can’t think of something to say, but because I know I shouldn’t say it.

Before I can come up with a work-appropriate reply, Sophie chimes in, “Excuse her. She’s just been released into society. She’s on a learning curve.” Then she boops her friend’s nose, like she’s chastising a dog. “Don’t ask people about their butt preferences, mm-kay?”

Casual Sophie is funny. She’s silly and relaxed. More than just her clothes have changed from the other occasions she’s been here. She’s got a gleam in her eye that she’s never had on any of her previous drop ins.

Before I’m busted for studying her, I turn my focus back to Wilson, giving him the butt scratches he’s asking for. I’m afraid to look at the expression on the blonde’s face, so I train my eyes on Wilson’s black leather designer collar, trailing my eyes up the matching leash. My knowledge of high fashion is limited, but I can guess what that cost. Certainly more than I make on a Saturday shift at the café.

Like a jolt of lightning, that reminds me of my position here. I’m the guy who serves coffee. I’m not supposed to be fraternizing with customers. Especially not taken customers I asked on a date and got shut down faster than a malfunctioning coffee maker. And I already learned my lesson with women like her. Ones who pay people to make their coffee instead of making it themselves. Ones who drive fancy cars. Ones who have designer dogs and buy them designer collars.

I straighten myself without looking at either woman. “Let me know if you need anything else. I’ll grab the water dish after you leave.” I give the dog one last pat on the head and return to my task.

Inside is quiet and isolated. It feels like there’s a bustling metropolis on the other side of the glass, but I’m trapped in here with the permanent aroma of fresh-ground coffee beans and cinnamon buns.

Could be worse.

Fifteen minutes later, Sophie, Wilson, and the blonde vacate the patio. Of course they leave their cups on the table, so I have to clean them up. When I pick up one cup, which I’m sure was the blonde’s, there’s a note on it.

Call me! 416-555-7674.

I stare at the cup for a few seconds, contemplating whether I should put the number in my phone just in case. In case of what? I’m not sure. Maybe a cataclysmic event and all human race is destroyed except me and this blonde. I’ll never know if I don’t have her number to check.

What is wrong with me? I’m a rational guy. A logical one. I don’t deal in a world of hypotheticals and what ifs. That’s not my arena. The reality is, I’m not interested in the blonde, and it would be shady of me to take her number, knowing the woman I asked out is her friend.

Still, I find myself snapping a picture of the cup before I toss it in the trash. I pick up the bowl I used for Wilson and return inside.

The rest of my shift passes with a few more customers. None with dogs, which I find disappointing, even though I only have one dog on my mind. Wilson seems sweet, but deep down, I know my disappointment isn’t related to him.

Something I need to rectify, because even if she wasn’t in a committed relationship, I’m not going down that road again.

Mondays are always insanely busy for me. They result in the creation and consumption of a lot of caffeinated beverages. I’m exhausted by the time I walk in my front door at the end of the day. Holden is staring at his phone again, moping on the couch.

“What’s wrong with your face?”

He gives me a side-eye glare when he looks up from his device. “Genetics. You’re one to talk.”

I stop behind the sofa, untying my apron. “No. Why do you look like you just sat on a toilet seat that someone else warmed up?” My attempt to add some levity to the conversation fails.

“That’s… oddly specific,” Holden deadpans. He missed the note of humour.

“You know what I mean. You look like you’re trying to decide between two uncomfortable situations.”

He doesn’t reply as I take off my dirty apron and work shirt and drop onto the couch beside him.

“I know things have been a little weird between us, but I’m still your brother. I still care.”

Again, he remains silent for several seconds, as if he wants to talk about whatever is bothering him, but doesn’t want to confide in me. An error of my own doing because I haven’t given him the impression he could talk to me for a long time. Holden and Phoebe are a lot closer with each other than they are with me, and that’s my fault.

Finally, he replies, “It’s nothing. I’m just brain fried from studying and stressed about these exams. So I guess you’re right. I have to choose between studying more, or staying here for this conversation.” The animosity in his response makes his words sting, but I can’t be angry at him. He stands and walks up the stairs, leaving me to slump back with my face in my hands.

Another relationship I’ve failed at. That’s something I should dedicate some work ethic to.