The Thief

Susanne relished random cafés. They were quite possibly her favorite place in all the world. There were so many in her bustling locale that she rarely went to the same one twice in any given week. And if some clever barista did indeed recognize her, daring to greet her with an upbeat “Cappuccino with two percent milk, extra foam, and a dash of cinnamon, right?” Susanne would straighten the offender right up with a scowl and respond cattily, “Medium dark roast no room.” Then she’d take her cup of coffee, turn quickly, and exit the establishment knowing full well there’d be no muffin or morning paper that day unless she paid for it.

The first time was an accident. She’d been at Marta’s on Fifth and Elm and had gone to the counter to ask that just a splash of coffee be added to the remnants in her cappuccino cup. Sometimes they’d charge her for a small refill, but more often than not she’d get it for free. On this particular occasion she picked up a brown paper sack along with her half cup of coffee with its fluffy residue and returned to her seat only to realize her own sack, a savory scone tucked inside, was next to her saucer. She looked around, perplexed at first, then opened the bag she’d retrieved from the counter. To her delight, it contained a large, flaky croissant. Susanne smiled to herself; the crescent-shaped pastry would make a lovely midday snack. She stashed it inside of her work bag, hastily gathered her things, and left. She didn’t go back to Marta’s for three whole months.

The next time was at Bloom. She’d spotted an empty seat next to a man with a well-groomed goatee. He smiled at the name scrawled in black marker across the white paper cup. “My sister’s name is Susanne.” He said brightly in her direction, indicating Susanne’s cappuccino and added, “Her birthday’s today.” Susanne beamed and wished the man’s sister a happy birthday. When he asked if Susanne would look after his belongings so he could use the restroom Susanne had replied, “Of course.” Then she folded up his New York Times, tucked it into her canvas tote and headed out the door.

At Leaves of Trees on Sixteenth and Main she stole a pair of aviator sunglasses. A few days later, at their second location in the Flower District, near the high school, she swiped some earbuds, a baseball cap, and some math homework. She’d chuckled to herself thinking how it easy it was going to be.

The youths sat clustered together at one table, but had their belongings strewn across another. As she stood in line to place her order, she plucked pieces of their conversation out of the air. ‘The assistant coach was a douche; Max couldn’t hit for shit; Mrs. Warren gave the easiest tests; Bethany had a nice rack.’ Smirking at this last bit, Susanne adjusted her yoga pants to expose more of her flat belly, taking full advantage of the turned down fold that landed just at the curve her small, but round behind. When the barista asked for her name, she flashed a roguish grin and announced loudly, “Beth.” One of the boys heard her and looked up from his phone; she pretended not to notice.

Her two percent milk-extra foam-dash of cinnamon cappuccino in hand, Susanne made her way over to where the boys were sitting. She smiled shyly, tucking her hair behind one ear in a girlish fashion and asked if anyone was sitting at the second table. The boy with the phone swallowed, his budding Adam’s apple bobbing up then down. Next to him, the boy who’d made the comment about Bethany’s anatomy, began tidying up his papers to make room for Susanne. And the boy across from him jumped up to grab his hoodie, not noticing that his Raycons had slipped from the kangaroo pouch pocket because his eyes were locked on Susanne’s thin frame as she shimmied between the two tables.

Susanne slid onto the bench, cupping the earbuds with her free hand. Then she set down the paper cup, the name ‘Beth’ facing outward where the boys could see it. With the deftness of a magician, she dropped the earbuds into her purse and retrieved a book from it all in one motion. She feigned reading, turning pages every so often and taking small sips from her cappuccino. But in fact, she was studying the boys without their noticing, and moving the ball cap that one of the them had carelessly flung onto the bench from where it lay on her right-hand side to underneath her left thigh. The Adam’s apple boy leaned forward in an attempt to see past Bethany’s detractor to get a look at Susanne. She caught him peeking at her from out of the corner of her eye and so faced him and smiled. His cheeks became two crimson apples and he quickly looked away.

“You guys go to Herbert Flowers High?” It was more statement than question when Susanne spoke. The boy seated diagonal to her, and still fiddling with the hoodie responded, “Yeah, we’re seniors.” Susanne matched the lie with one of her own. “I graduated from there a couple years ago.” The boy with the hoodie smirked. The quick math he’d done in his head made her no more than 20. If she believed they were 17 or 18 one of them might stand a chance. In actuality, Susanne was 27; a good 12 years older than the youngest of these boys. The one who’d blushed actually reminded her of her younger brother.

Using bits of their conversation against them, she asked, “Is Mrs. Warren still teaching? I swear she passed every kid that took her class. It’s a wonder I even got into Uni.”

“Dude!” crooned the boy next to her, sorting through his papers. “Check this out.” He handed Susanne a sheet with numbers and letters scrawled across it in three different places. “This was our homework for tonight.”

“Factoring? Geeze!”

“I know, right, and we’re seniors!” The hoodie boy reminded her, not wanting to break the spell and wishing his friend hadn’t shown the 10th grade assignment.

“Well, no doubt you’ll ace whatever test she gives you.” Susanne said, placing her book on top of the homework.

At this point the Adam’s apple kid stood up, allegedly to take a leak. He’d announced his intentions to no one in particular, but his friends looked briefly in his direction nevertheless. Long enough for Susan to fold the homework neatly into her book. She scanned through her phone, pretended to check a text message, blew out her breath and muttered an exasperated, “Parents!”. As she stood to go, the hoodie boy rose as well and said stupidly, “You leavin’?”

“Gotta run an errand for my mom.” On her way toward the door she brushed by the Adam’s apple kid.

“I saw what you did back there.” he said.

“And I saw that little chubby you were hiding in your sweat pants when you got up.” She responded wickedly, looking the embarrassed boy up, down, then up again beneath suggestively arched brows before winking at him. He blushed and scurried back to his friends. Susanne was out the door and turning the corner before he made it back to his group. She never went to Leaves of Trees in the Flower district again.

The following month passed in much the same way: baby wipes out of a diaper bag, the distracted father wearing an infant on his chest and trying to corral a four-year old at Cupps; knitting needles out of a half-finished afghan, four of the senior ladies at the counter ordering tea, the fifth left to look after their belongings but deep into counting her stitches at Bean Me Up; a red umbrella, the Meneki Neko cat upon it, waving goodbye to its owner as Susanne stepped out into the rain from the Boba and Coffee Hut.

Each theft was a thrill. From the mundane stolen name on her paper cup of cappuccino, actual cups of coffee, their real owners taking far too long to approach the counter when their names were called and Susanne quite practiced at escaping, to the risqué stolen glances at men clearly out to coffee with their significant others. She even stole a kiss, once, from a little girl perched on her mother’s right hip, while the woman ordered a skinny vanilla latte and an apple juice for her child.

Susanne had started a benign game of peek-a-boo and the little girl’s face lit up with a chubby-cheeked grin. Then the child drew her lips into the cutest pucker and Susanne couldn’t help mimicking the gesture. She blew the kiss into the air. Knowing this game the child added a layer, kissing her own small hand and then flinging it toward her newfound friend. Susanne pretended to catch the kiss and put it in her pocket. The mother had no idea any of this had taken place.

~ ~ ~

A few weeks later, outside Monument, a woman, dressed in black leggings with a hole in the knee and a stained tank top, much too shabby for the posh area, stood next to a stroller drinking an Americano with an extra shot. The two exchanged smiles as Susanne entered the café to order her usual. Inside, a neatly dressed older woman, not a wrinkle in sight on her ecru linen dress cinched at the waist with a thin, navy-blue belt was standing a bit back from the counter. “Have you ordered?” Susan asked.

“I’m waiting to speak with the manager.” the woman replied coolly, chin raised in haughty annoyance. Susanne stepped around her just as a tired looking man closing in on 40, his black skinny jeans and shaggy hair imploring a different belief, but the bags beneath his eyes and the bifocals atop them relaying the true story approached the bothered woman from behind the other side of the counter. “How are you today, Mrs. Courtland?” The overgrown hipster greeted her.

“There was another dog was in here again yesterday, Ian.” She reported. “And before you comment, the beast was not a proper working dog. It had no vest or other insignia indicating its owner had a disability issue. It was scratching itself in a manner that suggested it had fleas, and I nearly got tangled in the lead its owner had allowed to go slack. And now you’re allowing the homeless to loiter about.” She went on, gesturing to the large window and the woman leaning against it outside. “Just look at that filth. She’s lugged all her cans and bottles with her. We don’t have those recycling places on this side of town.”

“She paid for her coffee just like you, Mrs. Courtland.” He responded in a tone both even and fatigued. Susanne picked up on his silent exasperation and rolled her eyes sympathetically. Then with brazen inspiration she sidled up to the woman knowingly and relayed some concern at seeing different cars parked nearby of recent. She went on to tell Mrs. Courtland of the “plans” she’d overheard regarding the prospect of building affordable apartment units in the area.

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Courtland gasped, French-tipped, manicured fingers fluttering as her hand reached toward her chest.

“I know.” complained Susanne. “Monument makes the best cortado too. To think I’ll need to find a new place.”

“Dear, dear.” The woman named Mrs. Courtland clucked.

“Can I get you anything else today?” Ian asked.

“That won’t be necessary.” She spun on her well-heeled shoes and left through the garden exit so as not to have to pass by the homeless woman again.

As soon as she was gone Susanne examined the beautiful, silk scarf she’d removed from the woman’s expensive bag.

“Hermes,” Ian whispered conspiratorially, pronouncing the luxury brand like the name of the winged messenger god. “She collects them; wears a different one each day. And whatever you’re having it’s on the house.”

When Susanne went outside with her comped cappuccino, the woman who’d been leaning against the wall was no longer there. But the stroller and its contents were. Looking to her left then right, Susanne searched the street for a good two blocks in each direction. Seeing no one, she thought to herself: ‘Why not?’ Susanne grabbed ahold of the baby buggy and began walking north on Sunny Crest Ridge, dragging it behind her casually, like a Sunday shopper browsing the aisles at Target. But when she crossed over Fern Hollow, she began to walk with purpose, switching the stroller in front of her just like the good little nanny passersby surely assumed she was. Then just before reaching Manor Field, the exclusive neighborhood where she had intended to abandon her appropriated cargo, Susanne heard a whimpering coming from inside the stroller.

“Bibi, Bibi!” Came the distressed call—Susanne wasn’t quite sure from where. “Bibi!” Again, louder, and clearly from behind her now. “Bibi!” Susanne turned. A woman was running in her direction. She spun back to the stroller and lifted the canopy. There were indeed cans inside. But not the copious amounts required to equal a pound’s worth of weight and therefore a paltry 75 cents. Rather, a spent Celsius Sparkling Orange, tipped on its side and the three remaining cans, attached to their black, plastic four-pack top tucked to the front, behind them a small and fluffy, white teddy bear, its pink tongue protruding. It yipped, then let out a louder bark as its owner closed the distance.

“Bibi! Someone, stop her! She’s got my baby!” It was the Americano woman from outside of Monument. Susanne turned back to the Bichon Frise in the stroller, now yowling for its “mother”.

“Hmph.” she mused. Susanne never thought she would steal someone’s baby.