Page 2 of Latte Girl
Amanda has a calculator brain and an affinity for science she shares with our mother, but the similarities stop there. She looks just like her father. Her dirty blonde hair and Roman nose that doesn’t quite fit her face yet are all Doug, The-Asshole-Who-Married-And-Subsequently-Divorced-My-Mom.
My mother must have some pretty pushover DNA because I don’t look anything like her, either. A five foot nine strawberry blonde to her five foot two brunette, I guess my features must come from my dad, The-Asshole-Who-Also-Married-And-Subsequently-Divorced-My-Mom. Though aside from one blurry photo of what had to be him I found when clearing out a closet, I’ve never seen myfather.
The sound of the door opening snaps me out of my divorced parents/absent father/‘What do you mean I have daddy issues?’ reverie. Amanda shoves a final bite of eggs into her mouth and runs to wrap herself around our mom’s waist as she walks into thelivingroom.
I’d say I have it rough working forty-five hour weeks, but my mom does sixty as an orderly at a health centre, and her schedule is even crazier than mine. She usually gets in just as I’mleaving.
Nemo comes flying out of thin air, leaping up higher than any dog with legs the size and shape of pompoms should be capable of. Mom takes him in her arms and starts crooning things like ‘my sweet fluffy little floof boy’ while he licks the entire surface ofherface.
I make gagging noises as I gather up the breakfastplates.
“Oh Hailey,” she sighs, disentangling herself from both the dog and her younger daughter, “when will you and Nemo learn to getalong?”
“When Nemo learns the definition of consent. I don’t appreciate having my face licked when I don’t want to have my facelicked.”
“You never want to have your face licked,” Mom counters as she takes a seat at the table, rubbinghereyes.
“Correct,” I inform her. “It’sdisgusting.”
Mom just shakes her head and gives Nemoapat.
After finishing the dishes, I jump in the shower and then throw on my uniform in all its black pants/white shirt/grandma loafer shoe glory before twisting my still damp hair into a bun. After wearing it the same way day in and day out, I’m surprised my hair doesn’t just retain the shape of a conservative, cafe-appropriatechignon.
Amanda is already waiting at the door in her boots and coat, holding her Einstein backpack. I think the cartoon of a white haired man in a lab coat is just meant to be a generic mad scientist, but she insists it’s a depiction ofherhero.
Mom is still sitting at the table in her scrubs. I bend down to give her a one-armed hug before walking Amanda to the bus stop down thestreet.
“Okay Amanda Panda, you ready to have a good day?” I ask as we approach the stop, where a few other kids are alreadystanding.
“Yes!” she shouts, and is about to bolt down the street, but I wrap my arms around her and hold her back. We struggle for a bit on the sidewalk, laughing as we teeter back and forth. I drop my arms and she takes off towards the bus stop, backpack bouncing behind her, and turns to wave a quick goodbye before chatting with theotherkids.
I head off to my own bus stop. My faithful friend and fellow subject to the daily grind, the 106, pulls up and I get onboard, eyes already searching for what I know I won’t find: anemptyseat.
Squaring my feet in the aisle and grabbing onto the rail overhead, I spend the twenty minute ride indulging in a continuation of my morningfantasy.
After a round beneath the sheets that has me bracing my hands against the wall as I beg for more, the Hemsworth/Garfield mash up rests himself on my chest. His heaving breaths are hot against my neck as I place my chin on top of his head, letting out one of those exhilarated post-sexsighs.
I spend as much time imagining those calm after the storm moments as I do the actual storm, but that’s always been one of my favourite parts of sex: the after. The goose bumps raised by cool air hitting skin slick with sweat. The stillness of limbs tangled and heavy with happiness. The feel of fingertips tracing trails across two bodies that were just one and aren’t quite ready to breakapartyet.
We lie curled together until our runaway heartbeats slow down, and then fantasy man kisses me one last time before going off to do whatever it is he does for aliving.
I mean, thisisa fantasy. I don’t have to flesh out much besides hisflesh.
After he leaves, I sit up and stretch, wrapping the sheet around me as I step bare-footed into the kitchen. A plate of bacon and eggs is waiting for me, tasting like heaven. Maybe fantasy man is a cook. I finish my breakfast and then I take the seven step commute to my home office and sit down towrite.
That’s what I want to do. I’m saving up for a degree mom’s insisting it would be illogical for me not to pursue, but if I could put all the money I’ve made into starting up a blogging career without breaking her heart, Iwould.
Working at a cafe didn’t always fill me with dread. For the most part, cafes are my favourite places to be. I love the way the air is always so warm and thick it feels like sinking into a worn-in leather armchair. I love the clinking of mugs on saucers and the muffled, bee-buzzing voices of couples on dates and friends catching up on each other’s lives. In my fantasy world, I spend my days reviewing local coffee spots and travelling to other cities, giving readers cafe recommendations and tips about the area I’mvisiting.
Maybe if the cafe that hired me was just six blocks down the road, on the edge of the arts district, things would have been different. Instead, I started working at Dark Brown Coffee Co, smack dab in the middle of the businesssector.
The bus pulls up to my stop. The buildings that line the street are all slate grey with tinted black windows, and so tall that the road is always in shadow, like a perpetual storm cloud hangs over 19thStreet. I walk the few steps to Dark Brown. The oh-so-original business owners clearly thought long and hard about a catchy and relevant name for their java-distributingventure.
Astute observation, guys. Coffee is indeed darkbrown.
I’ve been slaving away at the place for almost two years. We’re morbidly understaffed and the shifts are long, sweaty affairs spent running around and pouring coffee for the same hundred or so customers who come in every day, at the exact same times, to order the exact samethings.
There are no worn-in leather arm chair vibes here, just sour faced people trying to buy enough espresso shots to get them through to five o’clock. I’d look for something better, but the hours mean I get to be home for Amanda when she gets back from school, and since this part of town is all but deserted on weekends, I can be around to take care of herthentoo.
