Caffeinated Chemistry

Before today, there was not a person I’d ever known who was immune to my superpowers. Every day, hundreds of people walk into my cottage-style shop to order their elixirs from me and, no matter what they order, I give them what they need. They don’t seem able to function without my potions and are often rude before they get them, but I like the hiss of the steam seeping out of metal and the rich scent in the air, so I deal with their early-morning crankiness. After they get their potion, though, they are always, always pleased. I lift my most recent concoction into the air and I holler out into the sunny room. 

“Iced, chai tea latte made with soy for Karen” Her eyebrows knit in confusion when I say her name. It isn’t what she ordered.

“This isn’t what I ordered,” she informs me snappily and I give her a half-smile. 

“But it is what you need,” I tell her. She purses her lips in annoyance and I can tell by the way she’s scowling at me that she is the type of woman to make a scene. She sneers and makes a show of looking at my nametag. I have to work hard not to roll my eyes and for once I am successful. 

“Do I need to ask for the manager, Emily?” I smile more widely at her.

“If you don’t like this one, I’ll make you a new drink for free. As the manager and owner, I can do that,” I’m confident that she’ll like it because they always do. She hesitates before she takes a sip but her eyes flutter closed when she does, and she sighs in contentment as the effects of her elixir take hold. She doesn’t say anything, but she does go and sit in one of the several mismatched, plush chairs that I have littered about my coffee shop. 

These are the human connections that I make every day. A cranky woman named Karen, a businessman named Bill, a college student named colleen. These are the only friends I have and they return because of my magic coffee. They are all strangers to me. My small coffee shop is where I talk to people and when I go home I am alone again, so making them happy with my magic coffee is the best part of my day. The majority of my customers are aware that they need not talk. I know what they need and I make it for them perfectly, every single time. Their contentment makes me feel purposeful, and my gift had no limits. Until today. 

A short, redheaded woman carrying a needless amount of books kicks my door open just as I finish with my lineup, and several loose papers fall out of her overflowing backpack onto my wooden floor. The more she tries to pick her items up, the more things she seems to drop and I want to help her but I stay behind the counter as I always do, to wait patiently to give her what she requires. After several moments of fumbling over her things, she finally approaches and I try to see what she needs, but she interrupts me.

“Can I use your bathroom?” She’s slumped her overflowing backpack onto the counter between us and her thick glasses are almost falling off of her nose. 

“Sure, it’s around the corner,” I nod to the left, where the stone walls dip into a little alcove with a pine-green door. She smiles before she goes and she leaves her books and backpack on the counter. I’m tempted to organize it for her. Instead, because I have no idea what kind of drink she is but I need to be doing something to keep myself from cleaning her messy backpack, I turn to make her a vanilla bean latte, my favourite, and just as I begin to sprinkle the top with cinnamon, she returns. She smiles widely at me and pushes her glasses up her nose until the frames are surrounding her moss-green eyes. “Thank you, it’s been a rough morning.”

“This is sure to help,” I hold the mug out to her but she frowns. 

“No thank you, I don’t like coffee, but it was nice to meet you, Emily,” she tells me, and I am too shocked to respond before she’s picked up her backpack of overflowing paper and out the front door. I regret not learning her name instantly, because I haven't given her any magic coffee to encourage her back.

“Who doesn’t like coffee?” I say to nobody in particular and frown into the mug. Much like my chairs, all of my mugs are different, and the cream-colored one I am holding is my favourite because it has vining plants painted all around it and reminds me of the forest. Everything in my shop reminds me of the forest because I long for the silence of it. Outside my door, the city is always alive with the sounds of horns and swearing, the smell of wet pavement and cigarettes never leaves and there is not a tree in sight. Everyone outside my door seems to be in a hurry to get somewhere and very impatient to arrive. Inside my shop, time seems to move a little slower, and although the buildings surrounding me are tall and imposing, they reflect the sun in such a way that it lights up my entire room, including the book Miss Vanilla Bean has left behind. “Who studies advanced chemistry without coffee?” She is even crazier than I thought. 

The sign outside my front door is a black, metal teacup with a loopy script of the name Emily’s Elixirs. I don’t know why someone who doesn’t like coffee would ever set foot in the place and I scowl down at the coffee that Miss Vanilla Bean didn’t take. I’m not one to waste things, so I sigh and I lift the mug to my face, inhaling the sweetness of the beverage before taking a sip. It is exactly what I needed. 

-

It’s three days later and I am part of the way through the chemistry book. I flipped through it in between customers and found a section using coffee beans to explain a profusion of reactions, the oxidization process and something called the Maillard Reaction. Indeed, science and art often go hand in hand, but the mumbo jumbo I am currently reading is useless nonsense and has no effect on the art of coffee preparation. I curse Miss Vanilla Bean for coming into my shop, not even buying a drink, and leaving me with an insulting book that describes the coffee-making process without any of the magic it actually requires. 

“Excuse me, ma’am, can I get a-” 

“Blueberry black tea. You got it,” I snap the book closed because its very presence here is now insulting me, and I make the man who interrupted me his drink. He takes the purple mug to the orange chair next to the fireplace and smiles into the mug as he takes a sip. They always do. Almost.

She’s back and looks even more harried by her books than she had three days ago. I scowl, but her dimpled grin does not abate which only serves to make me more nervous. I wipe my hands on my black apron to try to get rid of the sweat that has suddenly taken up residence on my palms. She’s approached the counter and that must mean she’s here to buy something but my power is gone and I can’t tell what she needs. I do not know why she is here and without my gift, I have no way of bringing her back, yet she is here. 

“What can I get for you?” It is the first time I have ever had the displeasure of asking.

“I’m not here for coffee,” she says, and I wonder why she’s here if not for coffee before I remember her insulting chemistry book. 

“Right, you must be here for this,” I reach over the towers of my precariously placed mugs and hand her the book that I now loathe.

“Oh! That’s where I left it!” She smiles wider still and a light blush creeps onto her cheeks. “I’ve been looking for this everywhere!” 

“You didn’t come here for your book?” She just keeps getting more and more puzzling. She’s eyeing me as if I’m as complicated as her chemistry book and I shift nervously under her gaze. I wonder if my short, black hair is sticking up at the uncontrollable angles it seems determined to stay at. I wipe my hands on my apron again. 

“Ma’am, I need a-”

“Ristretto, coming right up,” I smile apologetically to Miss Vanilla Bean before I turn to get the business man’s coffee ready. He’s the customer, after all, and I know what he is here for. After I hand the efficient looking gentleman his neon green mug, I turn to find out why she is here only to find that she no longer is. 

I close the store at the usual time and as I walk through the loud, busy streets of the city, surrounded by the strangers who drink my coffee, I feel more alone than I would ever like to admit out loud. The dull greys of the once-beautiful buildings surrounding me seem to imposingly loom and people walk hurriedly around without noticing anything but themselves. I think I see a flash of red ahead of me, but it’s gone as soon as it arrived and all that is left in the place that I saw it when I finally do reach that point, is an irritating chemistry book. Now I have this stupid book, I’m no closer to knowing why Miss Vanilla Bean keeps coming to my shop, and I can’t even turn around to make myself a cup of coffee because I just cleaned everything. When I see her again, she will get a piece of my mind. I pick up her book. I can at least help her out a little before I demand answers.

It takes three more days for her to show up again, but when she arrives I am ready to set up my machines and brew her the perfect coffee. I see her walk in, she’s struggling under the weight of her bag and her glasses are about to fall off of her freckled nose. I sigh, annoyed that she’s going against my plans yet again, and instead of waiting for her to approach the counter, I move around the booth and help her with her books. 

“You need a bigger backpack,” I tell her and she grins at me after I take the bag from her. 

“Or someone kind enough to help.” I have no idea how I’m supposed to reply but she isn’t looking away and my palms are sweating again. I’m sure my face is now red with blush.  

“Why are you here?” I ask her because not knowing makes me nervous and I don’t like to guess. “I know it’s not for coffee.” It bothers me that she doesn't want the only thing that brings my strangers back. I know it’s just a simple cup of coffee, just an ordinary thing, but the love and magic I put into making each of my concoctions, can change someone’s entire day. For just a moment, when my patrons bring the rim of my mismatched mugs to their lips and give themselves over to the addicting embrace of caffeine, everything else stops and they can take their time to relax into the warmth of the beverage and in the comfort of my mismatched chairs. Their deadlines are pushed a little further away, their ability to focus on their studies is heightened, and their patience for the hustle and bustle of the city that surrounds my quaint shop grows, all because of a little sip of my magic coffee and pleasing them makes me feel less alone. 

“I’m here because of chemistry,” she tells me, and I frown at her before I pull her book out of my apron and she smiles at me again. “You found my book!”

“Chemistry has nothing to do with my magic coffee, if you’d try it you’d know,” I tell her and she shakes her head.

“I don’t like coffee, but If I drink it will you go on a date with me?” 

She doesn’t like coffee and that is suddenly fine with me because she likes a coffee maker and we do have chemistry, which might be a different kind of magic altogether.