Page 9 of Lilah
"I'm alright, kid," he shakes his head, "go ahead and get you some go-go juice."
I giggle at his name for coffee and bid goodbye.
A short five minutes later, I pull up to the sidewalk leading to town square. I hop out my Forerunner and begin walking amongst the many people.
I enter in the first coffee shop I see and hop right in line.
Once it's my turn, I step up and smile at the cashier.
"Hello!" I greet, "I usually get the same thing when I come to coffee shops and don't worry it's not that complicated. Thank goodness I'm not lactose intolerant or something of that nature. I would just like a small caramel iced coffee."
The man looks at me with slightly widened eyes and I feel like slapping my own forehead for going off on a slight ramble.
"Please," I add with a sheepish smile and he just nods, putting in my order on the touchscreen computer thingy in front of him.
After getting my coffee, I make my way out of the small coffee shop.
I don't drink just straight coffee. I like to add a little kazam! to my coffee. Caramel, chocolate, anything of that nature really.
I walk along the street of town square quietly humming Malibu by Miley Cyrus to myself. I end up in the middle of Red Street.
I guess I just want to see if that guy is still here.
I don't know why he would be considering it's been a whole day but my eyes still fall on the same bench where I first walked up to him at last night.
Now, an older man sits at the bench.
Is that him? I mean, it can't be.
This guy isn'tthatold but he isn't really young. He's got graying hair on the sides of his head and slight wrinkles on his forehead.
My famous guesstimation: 54 years old.
He seems nice though.
I imagine him to have two fully grown kids and a loving wife. His oldest child just had a baby and now he's a happy grandfather.
He's just got one of those grandfatherly looks.
Realizing I'm looking at this man a little too much, I look away. If he would've caught me, he would most likely think I'm an undercover spy.
Or maybe just a weird person with a staring problem.
The sound of a door to one of the restaurants by day, bar by night opens sending me out of my mind-ramble and back into reality.
If the sound of the door opening right beside me didn't send me enough into the real world, then my body clashing with someone else's does.
I basically ricochet off the person's body but I'm able to keep myself standing by using my special CIA balance technique I learned from watching a CIA training documentary.
I'm basically qualified to be an undercover CIA spy.
My coffee flops and splashes to the ground though. Apparently, I'm not trained quite enough to be carrying a coffee. Or to deal with the pain of the slashes from the belt on my back because it's returned to stinging right now.
"Fucking watch yourself," the person grumbles angrily as I continue to wobble on my own feet.
I know that voice.
That voice has been stuck inside my head since last night.
