cemona

Prologue

You’re a temporary attendant at a coffeehouse in Charlottenburg, Berlin. You recently moved into a shared apartment with a colleague who attends the same university as you. Your colleague, Alia, coincidentally needed more assistance with her family-owned coffeehouse, so you decided to help her and her family out. You knew that brewing coffee might be a challenge, especially since Alia’s family took their coffee culture seriously. But what you weren’t made aware of is that there would be a particular customer who came in coincidentally in the coffeehouse due to heavy snowfall. Your quaint life as a college student and coffeehouse attendant would soon include an unprecedented, arrogant presence.

It was a day like no other. You’ve already gone to your morning class– philosophy– which started as a two-hour lecture and turned into a long-winded discourse of what nihilism truly meant to Friedrich Nietzsche versus La Rochefoucauld. Philosophy was simply that one elective that every student took at least once because, on the outside, it’s seemingly intriguing, but as the course continued, only students who actually found interest in how men from the seventeenth century created new forms of thinking to liven up their dull lives continued to engage in that class. You were at the borderline between genuine interest and boredom every time you stepped into that class; today was utter boredom.

 After the lecture finished, you decided to spend some time at the university’s gym. As a college student, you need to pay attention to your physical health. Even though you walk to your university classes, it could hardly be labeled as beneficial, as it takes only fifteen minutes from the door of your apartment to the gates of the university. Therefore, you waste no time heading to the gym whenever there is spare time in the day. Every time you go there, what you do changes; it could be the treadmill, which it usually is, or the Tuesday yoga class, or amateur weight lifting you do from time to time in order to avoid having wimpy arms.

 You have a designated locker at the gym, and—surprisingly—the locker rooms are liminal and clean for once. You put your hair up and change into a black short-sleeved shirt and gray joggers that your colleague, Alia, has lent you for the time being. You spend time at the gym on the treadmill for about an hour or two, with earbuds plugged into your phone, listening to music. As soon as you see the time turn a quarter before one, you decide that it might be better to use the gym’s showers to wash off quickly, even if the showers daunt a repulsive form to the other students. You are indifferent to this, however, and it’s much better than having the public witness a perspiring student with oily hair. 

The time when you’ve finished your shower is around one, and that gives you some free time before your shift at the coffeehouse. You promptly stroll back to your shared apartment, noting now that the cold streets of Charlottenburg have started to wake up. There’s a flea market open today, and you believe that it wouldn’t hurt to browse what the community is selling. There’s a wide range of goods available: antiques, used books, clothing, contemporary art, vegetables grown in allotment gardens, and home decor. You wanted to do Alia a good favor, so you bought onions for tonight’s dinner– her favorite, Käsespätzle. You can already imagine her puppy-dog eyes during dinner when she sees the egg pasta dish on the table that features caramelized onions and oozing melted cheese. You cut yourself off from your imagination, though, when Your eyes also catch a glimpse of intricately crafted earrings made from a Belgian vendor; these, specifically, have Swiss blue topaz embedded into fourteen-carat gold. You feel absolutely mesmerized by the earrings as if they’re something otherworldly. Your mouth moves swiftly than your mind, and you ask the vendor.

“Hello, how much for these earrings?”

The vendor turns her head away from the other vendor next to hers, who sells ornate woodcrafts that range from coasters to classic German cuckoo clocks. She smiles and responds,

“They’re around seventy-two euros. These are an old favorite of mine. I source the topaz from an acquaintance in Yekaterinburg. No one in Berlin seems to enjoy the vivid color, though. Are you interested in buying them for yourself or someone else?”

You pause for a moment and glance at the decorative wooden mirror standing to the side of the showcased jewelry. Then you lift your wrist to make sure you still have time to get home and dress yourself properly for your shift at the coffeehouse. It is half a quarter past one, leaving less than an hour and a half till you’re supposed to leave. You breathe a light sigh, knowing you barely get to browse the flea market, so you give a nod to the vendor. The vendor smiles again and turns around to find the earrings that way you can try on ones, not yet contaminated by the Berlin air. She quickly finds them, as if sensing that your time is running out. She hands them to you with two hands folded together, and in response, you politely take them. You then bend down slightly to look at yourself in the mirror and adorn your ears. The vendor begins to speak all the commercial-persuasive language she has learnt throughout her years in the flea market, speaking of how the gem symbolizes wisdom, but the outer world blurs as you put the earrings on and gaze upon yourself in your reflection.

The earrings complement your facial structure as if it’s a revitalized birthmark that you lost during your childhood. Though it’s cloudy in Charlottenburg and the only lights present are ones igniting the flea market, you can see the earrings glimmer subtly, akin to shimmering water under sunlight. You instantly realize that you should be going soon and snap out of your beguiled trance. You then continue to the vendor,

“Miss, these are absolutely stunning, and I’m in complete adoration. I am not carrying enough cash with me today, though. Is it possible for me to reserve these earrings and come back on another day later this week to buy them?”

“You know, you’re not the first customer I’ve had who acted as if these earrings were a siren calling. I’ve kept the same promise to her as well, but I didn’t mention the fact that I would sell these as soon as someone had the cash for them.” The vendor, now having said that, gives the same smile, leaving off an air of gentle malice. 

“I see. That’s pretty unfortunate for me. I’m not going to be able to come later today, as I have a work shift coming up, and I barely ever have the time to come into the flea market. I guess it’s between me and this mysterious customer to see who gets the first bite.” Your slight smile drains as you speak.

The vendor promptly gives a slight chuckle and pats her hand on your shoulder, “I’m truly sorry from the bottom of my heart, but that’s just how the business thrives here. Though I do have one slight correction, that customer you referred to as mysterious isn’t so mysterious. If she gets her hands on the earrings before you do, I’m sure you’ll see her eventually.” The vendor then shrugs, “That’s all I have to say on the matter, though. I easily recognized her; anyone in Berlin could have.”

The vendor continues on to describe her customer, who you now have to compete with, with who can buy these beguiling earrings first. You hesitantly stop her blabber, though, expressing that you now must get ready for your shift. The vendor quickly stops, realizing that if she does continue talking, she may as well reveal who this mysterious customer is, so she wishes you farewell instead.

You now only have an hour left to get ready for your shift at the coffeehouse, but fortunately, the walk from the flea market to your home is around six to seven minutes. Charlottenburg isn’t as extensive a borough as Mitte is and is less crowded by tourists, and for that, you’re thankful. There aren’t a lot of people walking at this time; most are at work or school. The walk is peaceful, on a tree-lined sidewalk with iconic half-timbered-style homes turned into apartments on the right-hand side. You’re still carrying a small brown paper bag filled to the brim with onions with your left arm, but your right arm is free to feel the sharp, cold air coming from the north. You do recall checking the weather earlier in the morning and that it mentioned some snowfall towards the evening, but nothing else serious. So all you keep in mind is to dress more comfortably for the winter weather.

You arrive at your shared apartment, which is located on the second floor of the complex. To your surprise, Alia is here, yet she’s lazing on the sofa, scrolling detachedly through news articles on her laptop. She doesn’t notice that you’re present until the door clicks behind you. To which she quickly straightens up and raises her voice,

“I thought your morning class ended around noon, no? I’ve been here reminiscing and going through every memory that I’ve ever lived while waiting for you. It’s now…” She looks back at her laptop and peers her eyes to the lower right corner, “It’s quarter till two!”

You sigh and smile, “I was out in the flea market, actually. I’m making dinner tonight, and I thought, instead of making the seasonal soups that I know you find the equivalent of ‘baby food’, I’m making food that represents the German culinary culture and your favorite, Käsespätzle.”

Alia gushes, “How thoughtful of you! Never mind the schpiel I was about to go through, and in fact, I already forgot half of what I was going to say, so I accept this as a formal apology for being tardy!”

You raise an eyebrow to Alia as she mentions some sort of schpiel, to which it seems that a light bulb went off in Alia’s air-headed mind, and she continues, 

“My family wants us to work overtime today. You know them for a month already, they’re superstitious and all that. They believe that there’s going to be an overflow of customers today, and they won’t be able to handle the coffeehouse properly without extra help. Their primary reason for believing this is that they’ve suddenly started gawking at the weather these past few days, and in their entire being, they all believe there’s going to be a blizzard later.” Alia huffs out in a sarcastic tone.

 She then rolls her eyes exaggeratedly, “So instead of closing the coffeehouse earlier as most average places do, they’re going to take advantage of this blizzard to get more customers who are unfortunate enough to still be far from home.”

You ponder for a moment and then express your opinion, “I mean? I feel like it’s a hit or miss situation. There’s a possibility that it could work, but at the same time, what if all other Berliners believe the same as your family does? That would be no good then.” You shake your head without any additional thought.

 You then head to the kitchen and set down the heavy load of onions that you bought for Käsespätzle. You continue to hear Alia’s complaints about working overtime, but it frankly doesn’t bother you that much to work overtime. It’s pleasant to work there and the aromatic smell of coffee always leaves a calming effect on you. You decide it’s best to start getting ready for your shift, not even having a light snack beforehand, since Alia’s family always graciously gives out sweet traditional sweets such as Bint Al-Sahn, the honey cake, or Kunafah, which the population of Charlottenburg especially enjoys. So there’s no reason to eat anything before working a shift.

The coffeehouse doesn’t give any proper uniforms as other places in Berlin might, but the family tells its attendants to keep their clothing sleek and modest. You remember Alia, when you first moved into the apartment, and how she first invited you to her family’s coffeehouse. She used this meeting as a way for you to meet her family and persuade you to work at the coffeehouse. The family needed workers as one of their primary employees had to resign since she was getting married to a Polish man, and found life in Warsaw to be more to her tastes than Berlin. At least that’s how Alia explained it, and then when it came to the dress code of the coffeehouse, Alia began apologetically expressing how it may be hard for you to find clothes that fit it. She said something along the lines that it’s the religion, and it would be respectful for you to at least dress modestly. You remember how you told her that it wouldn’t be a big deal, and for a fact, you weren’t a person who dressed to stand out, but to blend with others, so you already owned what was considered ‘modest’ by Alia’s family. Alia was greatly appreciative when you explained this to her.

As you browse through the dark wooden drawers in your bedroom, you pick out black trousers to wear and a slightly oversized maroon cotton sweater that you’ve bought recently.   You proceed to sit down at your vanity and turn on the lily-shaped lamp to better view your face. Your vision flashes before you, and the mirror reflects the same one in the flea market, where you’re wearing those Swiss blue topaz earrings that fooled you into a trance. But to your misfortune, the vision goes away at the same pace it came, leaving behind your tiresome face. You sigh to yourself and begin to brush your hair, which you then put up in a white lace hair band. You don’t usually wear much makeup and you prefer your natural features, but you like to curl your lashes and put mascara on. In winter times– especially in dry cold weather– your lips get chapped, so you must apply lip balm on them. You always bring a little, leather black purse with you on your shifts, though, there is nothing much of note in it. The bag carries a wallet gifted to you by your mother, gum, a transportation card, lip balm, wired earbuds, and there is a brown bear key chain adorned on the leather purse as well.

 Your life has always been relatively simple. And that includes your bedroom as well. It’s an average-sized bedroom for a Berlin apartment, your covers are brown, and you have a bedside table made from the same wood as your drawers. Upon the table, there’s another lily-shaped lamp and several framed photos of your family who live to the west of Berlin. You own a quaint bookshelf that’s on the right of your drawers; you don’t read much, but you like to keep every book you have read, almost as if it’s a collection of some sort, whether the book was absolutely monstrous or revolutionizing, it’s kept.

When you finished getting dressed and looking proper, there were only about fifteen minutes till you and Alia had to leave for the shift. As always, Alia took longer to get ready, and you wonder to yourself, why didn’t she spend those two hours waiting instead of getting ready? You head towards the door and open the coat closet, and proceed to raise your voice slightly, “Hey Alia, I’m ready to head out. Are you almost ready?” You then grab out a black trench coat to hopefully protect you from Berlin’s prophetic blizzard. It can then be heard through the scurrying of items in the other bedroom that Alia is not at all, even close, to being ready.

 You knew there was no point in rushing her, so you decided to sit and wait in the living room till she came out of her jungle. There was nothing better to do, so you hopelessly scroll through social media even though it often bores you. You were scrolling mindlessly till your eyes stopped at an event announcement. There’s an upcoming show at the Deutsche Oper Berlin, the text reads, “The Revival of the Historical French Tragédie! Tancrède, formally composed by Andre Campra, to be played soon at the Deutsche Oper Berlin”. Above the text, there is an image of an actress dressed in archaic-warrior armor, though it can be seen she’s dressing as the opposite gender, it’s visibly seen that it’s a young woman. The woman in the image can be seen sword-fighting another male, an action scene supposedly from the show’s practice. What truly mesmerizes you is the vivid, azure tips of her hair. You wonder if her hair is styled that way for the show, but you haven’t read any books about whether hair dye was something common for the wealthy women back in the eighteenth century. You continue reading information about the show, completely frozen in place, until a tap on your shoulder renders you mobile,

“Hey, we have to get going. What are you looking at? An opera show?” Alia squints her eyes and leans towards your phone screen, “Oh my gosh! And the La Maupin of this time and age is playing as Clorinde? I can recognize her hair anywhere.”

You shut off your phone abruptly and turn your head towards Alia, “La Maupin? What do you mean by that? I was just reading up on the show because the plot sounded interesting. I’ve never been to an opera show before, so this might be a good show to start with.” You suggest the idea to Alia, to which her eyes are already gleaming with unprecedented ecstasy.

Alia grips your shoulders with a force that was unbeknownst to you that she even had and locks her gaze into your eyes, “It’s this one famous opera singer’s alias— all of Germany, and soon to other parts of Europe as well, know her. She’s still young, around twenty-three or so, like us, yet she’s incredibly accomplished as an opera singer and performer. I’ve heard, though, she has a bad rep for being rude to other singers that she deems unworthy, and she completely breaks their spirits of getting a role.” Alia blabs like a madwoman, and you’re wondering if it’s still a pleasant idea to take her alongside with you to this play, especially if La Maupin is the lead role in it. You proceed to set your hand on her mouth, quieting her madness, and ask with keen curiosity,

“Instead of addressing her as La Maupin, what’s her legitimate name?” 

Alia pauses, then rolls her eyes, “That’s the exact reason why we call her La Maupin! No one actually knows her true name; she keeps it secret for personal and safety reasons—her words, not mine. There’s no better way to describe it than as La Maupin. Her range can go from soprano to contralto, and as I said previously, she’s as scandalous as Julie d’Aubigny from the late seventeenth to early eighteenth centuries in France. Her alias complements her, and she’s never had any quarrels, I mean, over her name, at least.”

You take a glance at your watch, displaying a face of boredom, but in your mind, you feel severely compelled to find more information about La Maupin. You have to shut down these thoughts, though, as it’s time to leave for the shift at the coffeehouse. You promptly tell Alia, 

“Alright, I think it’s about time we should get going to our shift, don’t you believe so?” You shove your watch in Alia’s face, which is still flushing from the adrenaline rush she has received from expressing everything she has to know about La Maupin. Alia forcibly composes herself and heads towards the coat closet to grab a puffer jacket. You stand up as well, and wait for her as she bends down to put her chic loafers on, which will definitely make one slip if there is truly a blizzard.

You guys head out, side by side. You note that the air of Charlottenburg has significantly become more biting and frigid, the wind quietly humming alongside to the tune of automobiles signaling their discomfort. Alia shivers exaggeratedly, but she’s used to the brutal winters of Berlin more than you are. You both begin to walk in sync towards the bus stop near your apartment complex, which only takes about three stops to arrive at the street where the coffeehouse resides. Alia, as expected, forgot her transportation card at the apartment, and had to use yours when the bus arrived at the stop. The bus was unsurprisingly empty as this route went towards the center, where the locals in the area didn’t need to go, so you and Alia sat down comfortably in the bus seats. You sigh and turn your head towards Alia, who has one earbud in her ear to listen to music on the bus ride, 

“How many times could you forget your card? It’s in the bright color of a lime. This is exactly what occurs when you spend too much time earnestly blabbing about an actress who, from what I’ve heard, is simply cocky for her own good.” Alia pretends not to listen, but as soon as you refer to her La Maupin as cocky, you can see her hands clench onto her phone harder,

“I believe that the true reason for my forgetfulness is the fact that my family wants us to work overtime for a blizzard that could not even occur,” Alia affirms, and then proceeds to put the second earbud in her ear, signaling for you to just leave her and her sourness by herself.

You proceed to imitate her, and connect your wired ear buds to your phone to listen to light acid jazz, perfect for giving vibrancy to Berlin’s grey winter. Your thoughts then wander off as you look into the window, watching the people hurriedly walking, the stagnant cars, and the birds flying in circles in the dark sky. That same feeling you felt when trying on those Swiss blue topaz earrings rushes over you; it’s a pulling attraction to something you can’t describe in words. You can’t really make sense of it, the earrings and La Maupin; they’re completely separate entities, yet they feel so closely intertwined with one another. But one thing was made sure for you: it’s an absolute necessity to attend Tancrède and witness La Maupin herself.

The bus finally arrives at the designated street after ten minutes or so, and you and Alia start walking down the Kudamm, or the boulevard where the coffeehouse aligns near famous boutiques, art galleries, and other touristy endeavors. You keep silent, but Alia still complains about her family and their superstitions, to which you simply hum in response. Your mind is still mesmerized— by the earrings— and now an actress with azure tips in her hair. But before you know it, the coffeehouse stands before you and Alia, Coffeehouse Sana’a. Though all of the shops, restaurants, and cafes gleam certain lights from their insides throughout the Kudamm, especially in the winter, Coffeehouse Sana’a offers a warmer, familiar, light seeping through its traditional German windows that cannot be replicated by any other establishment in the boulevard. 

You and Alia promptly enter the coffeehouse, the door chiming bells; the aroma of the coffee already fills one’s nostrils, and music can be heard quietly playing, specifically Fairuz, you can recognize her iconic voice. The first one to greet Alia was her mother who, in fact, was the owner of the coffeehouse and the business itself. She greeted Ali in Sanani, a dialect of Arabic, and then smiled and greeted you as well in German. Alia began conversing with her mother in Arabic– based on her tone, complaining about the overtime, but the authoritative woman countered her successfully, and Alia could no longer argue, heading towards the back of the cafe to drape an apron over her; she grabbed one for you as well and handed it to you. Alia then explains how the shift will go today, 

“My mother told me that I’ll be working the first half of the shift as the cashier, and you’ll be working the second half, supposedly that’s when the blizzard comes in, and she exclaimed that you’re far better off working with people when you’re tired— I am not. You’ll be working the first half, preparing coffee, and she’ll be helping alongside you since it’s still only been a month of you working here. Then in the second half, I’m preparing the coffee.” Alia breathes a heavy sigh and weakly brings her fist up, prompting a fist bump. You bring your fist up to hers, to which she quietly mutters,

“Go team.”

The first half of the shift went as expectedly. It was an average Wednesday, and people began to pour in after they had finished their nine-to-fives. Most ordered simple coffee that was characterized by the region of Yemen where they were harvested. Although all coffee beans appeared the same to you, Alia’s mother, in the first week of working at the coffeehouse, illustratively described their taste and flavor profile differences. For example, the Hawari’s flavor profile consists of milk chocolate and fruits such as plums or blueberries, while the Dhamari is known for having a winy and acidic flavor profile. These are only simple explanations, but the Yemenis take their coffee quite seriously. You have mastered brewing hot types of Yemeni coffee, but there are some individuals out there who still order iced coffee in the middle of winter. Such drinks are the Marib or Mufawaar, and those coffees are the reason why Alia’s mother is staying with you, and that gives her the excuse to pry into your personal life as well.

“You know what you will be doing in the future, but have you ever thought of who you will be with?” Alia’s mother asks with genuine curiosity. You know she means no harm, but the question is truly too personal for even yourself. You smile and respond,

“I am sure the right person will come along the way soon enough. I am in university still, and even if I don’t find anyone that suits me there, I’m likely to connect to many others through my profession.” Alia’s mother hums, accepting the response, and asks no more. The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, though, and she’s as much of a rambler as Alia is; therefore, she starts speaking again as you’re making two Hawaris, 

“Have you ever thought about the type of person your future partner will be? What would you want him to be like?” Alia’s mother asks as she’s taking out slices of Bint Al-Sahn to accompany the two Hawaris. You ponder for a moment, not truly thinking much of an answer, and respond politely,

“I’d most likely want someone who strongly thinks of themselves and of me. On top of that, someone who would be loyal to me no matter what occurs in our lives.” You came up with an answer on the spot because if you had to actually think about your romantic life, it would’ve taken up the entire first half of the shift. Alia’s mother, yet again, hums and places the slices of the Bint Al-Sahn onto the intricately wood-crafted tray next to the Hawaris. It’s clear that she deemed your answers good enough for the sake of the coffeehouse and that she came to the conclusion that you don’t have an extensive and troublesome romantic life that Alia, on the other hand, has.

The first half of the shift is over as soon as it started. Making coffee is now simply muscle memory to you, even if you required Alia’s mother’s help at times. It was time for you to take over the cashier, and you only just noticed that the coffeehouse is soon to reach its capacity limit. It seems you’ve forgotten how truly popular this coffeehouse was for locals and tourists alike, and you remember how Alia’s family wanted to keep it open during the blizzard to obtain even more customers. You can already imagine the stress that will come upon you if it truly happens. 

The prophecy, of course, became true. Though it didn’t happen in a blink of an eye, you started to hear the bells from the door chiming more and the coffeehouse became absolutely enamored in loud conversation, Fairuz could no longer be heard. As a customer was looking for cash in his wallet, you tilted your head to look out the window. You could see the frost forming on the windows ever so slightly, and if you squint even further, you can see gusts of snow fly past. The shops, restaurants, and other cafes have already seemingly closed down. Their lights no longer glare. You visualize how the coffeehouse must look to anyone unfortunate to still be out at this time. It must be akin to a light at the end of a tunnel, a solace for anyone. The customer finds his money after a while and makes a small conversation with you, bringing you back to reality, 

“I’m surprised that your coffeehouse is still open even during this tumultuous blizzard that, in my long years of living in Berlin, I haven’t experienced in a while. I’m grateful, though, if it weren’t for this coffeehouse still being open, I would still be outside, fighting against the wind.” The man heartily, and you nod and smile. You see him leave a tip in the tip jar. Other customers shared the same opinion as him, as well, their surprise and gratitude towards the coffeehouse, and how they will definitely visit again in the future if the coffee is up to par.

All was going well for you, even if you were slightly overwhelmed by the seemingly unending barrage of customers alongside their loud chatter, ranging from topics such as the blizzard, the primary topic, to their jobs, and their plans for the upcoming weekend, to which you hear the opera show, Tancrède, slip out of a few of the customers’ mouths. You feel at ease with how everything is exactly as Alia’s family predicted, and you’re prepared to take the next customer’s order until a familiar shimmer catches your gaze. The same one that put you into a trance at the flea market earlier.

The customer is dressed casually, like many others in the coffeehouse, she’s wearing a white, cotton sweater, similar to yours, whilst wearing a black, leather skirt with opaque tights under. She’s wearing a maroon trench coat that has gaudy, white frills of fur on the inside, and it’s not buttoned fully. But the peculiar thing that makes you raise an eyebrow without meaning to is how her hair isn’t tied up, but hidden under her trench coat. She has a clearly vintage black leather purse to her left, and she’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s winter in Berlin, where there’s barely any sunlight in the day, and the sun by now has already vanished. What truly stops your normal pace of breathing, though, is when your eyes find the same Swiss blue topaz earrings, perfectly fitting onto this customer’s ears. You see how they glimmer the same when you view them in your reflection, but they truly complement this customer’s face and her eyes— her piercing and icy eyes. They perfectly match to the point of making your fingers curl onto the table behind the cash register. The effect of the earrings is no longer a simple act of beguiling; it now brings you feelings of complete obsession. You recall how the vendor from the flea market described her mysterious customer, who also wanted the Swiss blue topaz earrings. If these were the same earrings, from the same flea market, from the same vendor, something sinister and unknowing would completely devour your heart and mind. But before you can ask her where her earrings are from, she seemingly cuts you off at the moment you slightly part your mouth and gives a slight curve of her lips,

“Hello. It’s my first time here. I must say, I’m quite thankful for this coffeehouse. I was on the way home from an event, and my cab canceled on me due to the weather. He must’ve had some ill will towards me, but enough of that. What are your recommendations? I don’t really care if the coffee is sweet and bitter, just give me something to warm me up. No cream either.”

Your mouth slowly, complacently closes, and you keep your service at its highest priority. The earrings will have to wait, and you smile at her, “If you would like our best coffee with no cream, I’d recommend the Harazi coffee, its taste profile consists of cardamom, dark chocolate, and cherries. Were you interested in any of our baked goods as well?” The blonde detachedly hums and responds,

“Any bread that goes well with the coffee you suggested. And I must beg my pardon, but I’ve noticed your eyes glance way too many times for me to count over my face.” She lowers her voice down an octave to the point where you have to slightly lean over the cash register to hear her over the loud chatter of the coffeehouse, “Do you think others will notice who I am?”

 You lean away and straighten up in confusion, “I’m sorry? I’m not exactly sure of what you mean. Though I do admit, your earrings are what keep catching me off guard. You know, I’ve been meaning to ask where they’re from.”

 You don’t understand what the blonde is truly implying, but you must cut to the chase before the line of the coffeehouse drags out of the doors. The blonde’s eyes slightly widen, but they quickly return to normal, and she gives a taunting smirk,

“I actually just bought them at the flea market a little over an hour ago. I was overjoyed when I got them, especially when the vendor told me a college student was desperate to get her hands on them, but lacked the cash on hand to do so.” She then stopped talking to scour her purse for her card to pay with, and once the card signaled with the card reader, she remarked, “As the vendor foretold, I got the first bite.”

There would be no way that on the same day, you’d see the most beguiling earrings that your eyes ever set gaze upon, and on the same day, you would see them on someone other than you. And even more gut-wrenching, on someone who fits them as if they were made for an empress, as if they were especially made for her. No longer was it just the earrings, the La Maupin— now there was this mysterious lady who proudly stole your hopes of ever getting the earrings and seemingly knew that you were the one who most desperately wanted them. Thoughts came to override your mind, thinking of all the possible ways you could get the earrings back from this lady. But then you remember, the vendor kept making a big deal of her mysterious customer and her identity, and that you would know who bought the earrings soon. So how come you didn’t know this lady, but felt so much towards her that you can’t even describe it? You aren’t able to continue thinking, though, when another customer taps the shoulder of the blonde standing before you, signaling her to hurry up, and the blonde clicks her tongue and locks her eyes with yours.

The lady gave one final smile, though it now felt more mocking and insincere than the other smirk she gave, “If you would like to know more about the earrings, I’m probably going to stay until the coffeehouse closes and I get a more reliable cab that doesn’t treat me with impudence.” She proceeds to walk away from the cash register with an air of that same gaudiness to a secluded table facing towards the window, and pulls out her phone, messaging away with a blank expression on her face. You no longer can glance at her anymore and you must now return to finishing your second shift that will only truly end when the blizzard subsides.

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