Page 9 of Viper

Clementine

The coffee shop is extra busy tonight. I think it has something to do with the exercise classes going on a few buildings down. Everyone wants that last-minute boost before they work out. Honestly, I’m surprised how well the studio is doing. Not because Jo isn’t great, she is, but because we have all these hiking trails and outdoor activities. I figured folks would rather take a hike or a long walk over the stuffy room.

I guess I was wrong.

People must like the socializing. I guess that’s proven by the amount of people here pre-gaming.

I stand in line and study the menu as I wait, trying to look extra busy so no one talks to me. It’s not that I’m anti-social, but I really can’t stand long, shallow conversations. People are fine, in small doses. Very, very small doses.

Maybe this is the part where I’m supposed to be better. I think it is. I’m supposed to stretch outside my box and be the new me… or the old me… whatever version of me exists where I talk to people, make new connections, and stop lamenting the past.

Caramel macchiatos, espresso, green tea, strawberries and cream, chai latte, double chocolate chip latte, coffee, iced cold brew with vanilla. I scan through the list over and over again, repeating the names in my head, really concentrating on the prices and spelling. Yeah, this isn’t a new me thing to do. This is an old me thing to do.

Across the street, Jo is setting up for the class. I see her through the big windows. I never understood why exercise places always have big windows. Do people want to watch others jump around? Do others want people to watch them jump around? What’s the allure here? Either way, Jo is grinning ear to ear. I’m so happy for her. We met a couple of years ago when I opened my vet clinic here in Rugged Mountain. She was my first client. A black and white tuxedo cat. His name is Handsome, and he lives up to every letter.

The woman behind me in line leans in and starts talking. “You’re dressed like you’re going over to Jo’s tonight. Are you taking baby goat yoga? I’m so excited!” I’d guess the woman is in her early twenties, due to her perky tits and long blonde hair. I’m not sure I have this in me tonight. I don’t want to think about the perky tit years I wasted on Craig.

I grin, attempting not to be fake, though I think that’s the definition of acting fake. “Yeah!” My tone is way too high. “I’m excited. Should be a fun time.” Wow! Way to add to that conversation, Clem!

“Right?” she giggles. “I was talking to Maddox Baxter the other day. You know Maddox, right? The guy that practically owns this whole mountain with his brother and sister. Well, his family donated the goats for tonight. I’ve been on their farm before so it’s like they’re my goats. They’re so cute. You’ll love them. Nugget is…” The woman drones on while I go back to repeating the menu to myself. I should probably be nice.

Stop ignoring this nice lady, Clem. The encouragement comes in with Jo’s voice attached.

“Anyway,” the woman says, “I’ve seen you around. You’re the veterinarian who has that clinic a few doors down, right?”

My clinic. I almost forgot that clients could see me in the wild. I should act like the town veterinarian, not the anti-social hermit I truly am.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice still too high. “Do you have any pets with us?”

“Oh, two dogs. Rocky and Marbles. They’re pit bulls.”

I scan my mind for who she might be talking about, but the names don’t pull any pictures. I nod and smile. “They’re such good dogs. How are they doing?” This is one of the perks of my job. I can talk about dogs instead of real life.

No one wants to hear about how your marriage crumbled to hell and you’ve been in love with a stranger for ten years, that’s a train wreck, but everyone loves talking about their pets.

“Oh good. I was going to bring Rocky in to see you because he’s got a lump on his neck that I can’t…” She pulls her phone out of her back pocket. “Let me see if I have a picture of it. I’m sure it’s in here somewhere.” She scrolls through her screen, whipping her finger up dramatically. “Nope. Not this month. I know I took it recently. Let me try my messages. I might have sent a picture to my husband.”

This is the worst part of being a veterinarian. Everyone thinks I can diagnose everything on sight. I get photos at least once a day from most anyone who has my number. They all want me diagnosing rashes and lumps, or various other disgusting things all based on a single photo and a few random symptoms. I wish I could help, but it doesn’t work like that.

“Bring him in. It’ll be hard for me to give a diagnosis over an image. We’d need to biopsy the lump and—”

“No. No.” She waves one hand toward me and keeps scrolling. “It’s okay. I know I have these photos in here somewhere.”

This line is not moving.

I could turn around now, leave, maybe make it back in time to watch an episode of trash TV on the couch with a bowl of hot, buttery popcorn, then masturbate again, and pass out. That sounds like a pathetically great night, actually. But… that’s the old me.

New me is in a coffee shop at seven p.m. listening to a stranger talk about their dogs while she watches the chrome espresso machines squirt caffeine into small take away cups.

Yes, this life is much better. Right?

As the woman continues to scroll, I study the baristas behind the counter. Some are grinding beans, while others froth milk and add flavored toppings. One woman stands at the front, near a tip jar. She pulls out a brown bag and fills it with a lone muffin from the glass case next to her.

Behind me are a row of bistro tables with trendy wrought-iron chairs and a comfy leather seat. A woman sits sprawled with her legs up, reading a book while she sips on her drink. I never understood how people can do that. I’ve always wanted to be the girl who could read in a coffee shop, but I can’t concentrate when other people are swarming around. For some reason, my brain wants to study everyone and everything.

Maybe coffee shop reading can be my new thing. I could at least try it. Who knows, maybe the new me will love it.

The airy slurp of an empty whipping cream container beats twice as the warm scent of herbal teas and mulled spices fill the air. Scratch the idea of reading here. I can’t imagine trying to enjoy my favorite smutty book with all these random things happening. Turns out, old me was right.

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