Odds and Evens

On the way to the bank, the sweet musk of coffee lured me toward the cafe next door as it usually did. As always, the big bold letters above the door said ‘coffee’ in an eggshell white and all caps. When I’m out like this, I like to play a little game called Odds and Evens to spice my life up. If someone asks me a question, I casually check my wristwatch. If the last digit is even, I tell the truth.

A little white lie didn’t strain anyone, but grandma hated this game. She always groaned when I’d check my wristwatch. Only a few people knew my name, and she cursed mine like it belonged to an imp. 

A woman kicked the door open inches away from my nose and marched past me, carrying a styrofoam cup; she had a humongous opal ring wrapped around her thumb. My nostrils flared as she continued to brush right past me, nearly bumping my shoulder. I grip the handle, pull and the little brass bell jingled above. This is exactly why I don’t need to be honest to people–people are jerks. Why would I spend time being honest with her? 

The cafe must be training, because I don’t recognize the guy at the cashier, and I’m already in a bad mood. I need coffee. He fumbled over the buttons, spoke with a nasal and made me repeat my order twice. Behind the counter, the machine grinding roast wailed an awful screech, but emitted a luscious scent. The warm nuttiness kept me sane as I waited for the total. Then the cashier asked me if the order was right and as blandly as I could muster, I told him yes. 

I contemplated checking my wristwatch, but a line was building behind me, and you didn’t want to test a caffeine addict’s patience. The population consisted of folks who scarcely held doors for you and cut you off of the freeway, so heavens forbid if you made them wait for a Styrofoam cup. A little boy kept getting out of line to shove his face into the curved glass display next to me, filled with an assortment of sweets and treats. He banged onto the clear shield and I inched away. The man he came in with gabbed on his phone, third in line behind me.

I needed to get out of the line before I screamed.

I quickly cracked my wallet open and a wad of receipts sprung out everywhere. Two flung onto the counter like peanut worms. One dropped to the floor and a few clung onto my wallet as if they were monkeys-in-a-barrel. I wrangled all of them. Without paying, I ran to a chair and hid my prickling ears in the darkest depth of my hoodie. Humiliation flooded over me. Nuts.

The next person walked up to the register as I fumbled with my hood. My hands shook like a bug-eyed chihuahua and I pressed my back up against the plush of the green cushion. The agonizing, delicious waft of roast nibbled my nose as if to taunt my yearning. The distracting aroma grew stronger, as if it drew nearer. Then, its overwhelming scent rolled up beside me. 

When I took a peek from my hood, the man stood by my plush chair with two coffee cups. A bunch of creamers and sugars packed within his flannel breast pocket.

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I kind of brought…everything. I promise it isn’t poisoned, I heard your order.”

Color me bewildered, I blinked. A stranger showed me kindness and I didn’t have to conjure a performance. It wasn’t a question, so I could spare some truth.

“Poisoned or not, coffee is coffee. I didn’t know this cafe came with heroes.”

He flashed a toothy grin. “I left my cape in the car, but if it’s all the same, can I sit with you? I’m Todd.”

“Opal,” I offer.

I gestured to the extra seat hugging the table. He impressively maneuvered them with his feet and settled down. He passed me my cup and the miscellaneous packs.

I focused on my paper cup as if it were my pathway to nirvana.

I measured the creamer and sugar by the liquid’s hue, mixing the ingredients with the wooden stir stick. When I break from my trance, he’s watching me. I check my watch, wondering if I should fib about college debt, wondering if he’d offer another cup of coffee.

“I didn’t know this cafe came with witches,” he mused. “You looked like you were making a potion.”

“I left my broom in the car,” I quipped. “So, Todd, what are you afraid of most? Flying or debt?”

When he chuckled, his cheeks cinched and formed cute, little dimples. “The second of the two. And you?”

Flying, I am definitely horrified to fly, but he didn’t know that yet.

I sigh slowly, pick up my cup and take a sip, but it startled me. Why didn't it taste as bitter? My grandma once said that kindness could transfer into a cup of coffee. That was why all my cups carried grounds at the bottom and needed sugar on an IV. She said I played too many games and didn’t share the rules.

“Flying. Some witch I am.”

I didn’t know if she was right, but the coffee spread along my tongue, tingling in warmth and smooth texture. No grounds and no bitterness. The perfect cheap cup of coffee for a nincompoop, a charlatan, a femme fatale… me.

“A kind witch, nonetheless. You got somewhere to be? You keep checking your watch every ten minutes.”

“It’s a family heirloom,” I mentioned on an odd number.

Todd patiently swigged his drink as he mulled my words over. 

“You come here often. I sit over there,” he said.

He pointed to a table where a pair of people with their laptops, eyes sunken in like mindless zombies. Something about the way Todd stared at my eyes made me shift back. I couldn’t decipher him, but my ears were burning. I couldn’t recognize him. He looked like everyone else here and even had an average haircut. He could blend into any room and I wouldn’t have found him, like a watch-dog chameleon.

“You sometimes seem to be short one dollar.” It wasn’t a question.

I sank into the chair, my skin crawled with goosebumps. I thought I was so careful about not getting caught. I was always making sure no one noticed me. I even dye my hair once a week, pick a different time to enter, to assure I looked different. I spoke with my chest out, but the way he scrutinized me made me squirm in my seat.

He leaned in. “Today you’re Opal, but soon you might be Penelope or Quinn. What’s your real name?”

I grip the plush of the couch as he makes a crooked smile. Is his name even Todd? I didn’t like this game. The last bit of the coffee had gotten cold, and I slurped every last drop. I wasn’t hurting anyone, it was a silly game with strangers that didn’t care about me.

“So, Todd, was it? Is that your real name?”

“Ladies first.”

“Rude of you to insist,” I seethed, “without even offering something first.” I roll each vowel hard through my teeth. No one cared about each other, they got their tasks done and left. So what did it matter if my name was Penelope or Opal?

“Todd. It’s a family name, but I’m not a junior or a third, it’s from my mom’s side.”

I gave him one look over and every inch of his face glowed earnestly. I pulled my sleeve over my wristwatch.

I say, “Molly. Everyone thinks they're clever, they give me nicknames like Dopey, Mary Jane, Four-twenty.”

“You hate your name?” he asked, his eyes are two gray saucers

swirling with curiosity.

Strangers didn’t give me the time of day, their eyes simmered in a dull tone.

I squeezed the paper cup and it caved in on itself. “I love my name. I hate people.”

“Molly it is, then.”

And that was the time when a stranger became my friend. Todd lived with his grandmother, too, and we lived close by. I didn’t know how to make friends outside of sandboxes. The world seemed big and full of people who didn't care enough to know my name. Todd, however, wanted my company, because he was also looking for someone playing in a sandbox.

The more I spent time with Todd, the less I felt the need to check my wristwatch, and when we had coffee together it always tasted better.