Rainy Windows

The smell of lattes brewed to perfection drifts from under the door of Timeless Bites Coffee Shop, and into the hectic street of Bellford City. The sparkling windows create dazzling diamond-like shadows on the sidewalk. Customers form a snake-like line in front of the cafe, eager to sample the new blueberry scone. Among them, I sit on the front step of a neighboring store, furiously pouring my heart into words. My mind flies across the paper, my pen racing to catch up to it. 

He moved closer, their lips only centimeters apart. She could feel his heavy breath on her face, channeling every nerve in his body not to slam her against the wall and unzip her tight, sexy, dress. Sophia knew what they were doing was wrong, but oh how good it would feel to be wrong. Rejecting all sense, she thrusts herself onto him, biting his neck and running her manicured fingers through his dark, coarse, hair. He unbuckles his belt, struggling to undo the zipper. Daring as she was, Sophia wraps her mouth around the zipper, pulling-

“Next!” the barista chants, tearing me from my writing. I toss my notebook into my purse, tuck my pen behind my ear, and unknowingly walk through the doors of my future. Classical music bounces off the walls of the small cafe, contrasting the atmosphere that lies outside. I gaze longingly at a chocolate croissant but remind myself that I’m working, not snacking. The worker must have seen my mouth practically watering as he says, “I was going to ask what I could get you, but I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.” My vision shifts from the delectable pastry and up into the deep blue eyes of the mysterious worker. For a moment I feel lost in his eyes as if I look away I might drown. “Hello?” he repeats, a small grin playing on his perfectly shaped lips. For once in my life, I feel as if words have failed me, and trust me, that doesn’t happen often. “Sorry about that! No no, I’ll take a…” I reply, fishing frantically through my purse to find the small slip of paper I wrote Mrs. Emmerson’s order on. 

The outermost strap falls onto my forearm, spilling its contents onto the tiled floor. I feel my face getting warm, my color quickly shifting from a peach to a red. I drop to the ground, throwing my belongings back into their rightful place. I feel the mysterious barista kneel next to me, but I refuse to meet his gaze out of pure humiliation. I continue to chuck items into my purse. Chapstick. Tampon. Pill bottle. “Hey, hey, let me help,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. He lays his hand onto mine, which grasps onto a pack of spearmint gum. With his other hand, he carefully places my things back into my bag, picking up my wide-open notebook as he does so. His eyes begin to scan the first few words before I snatch it out of his hands and put it back into my purse. After all, some things are meant to be kept private. “So you’re a writer?” he asks as if that is the simplest question in the universe. “I think the term hobbyist is more appropriate” I reply, trying to steer away from the subject. I feel his eyes on me, most likely paired with a puzzled face. “Sometimes being practical is being a coward. Be fearless. Do what sets your heart on fire.” he poetically states. “Thank you” I mutter, forcing myself to make eye contact so I don’t appear impolite. He smiles, revealing perfectly aligned white teeth. Grabbing my elbow, he helps me up and resumes his place behind the counter. 

“So let's try this again, what can I get you?” he asks, trying to conceal his laughter. “I’ll take one large iced coffee with six shots of caramel and one pump of chocolate syrup. I’d also like a poppyseed bagel with the poppyseeds plucked off.” I reply, stifling my giggles. “Not much of a bagel if the poppyseeds are plucked off” the mysterious barista sarcastically says. “Well according to my boss, poppyseeds are a chef’s way of trying to sabotage you by placing landmines in the form of a seed in a pastry,” I reply. He laughs, the sound pleasing my ears. “So how much?” I ask through a grin, reminding myself that I’m on a schedule. “Nothing. I have a soft spot for writers,” he replies, adding a wink that makes my legs feel immobile. “Oh come on, how much?” I say while trying to hide the fact that I’m blushing internally. “I mean, if you REALLY want to pay me, then how about you fill out a job application to work here,” he states. Even though my schedule would never permit me to have an additional career, I sign the paper so fast that my writing is barely legible. I have a feeling this particular barista won’t let me leave without signing it, and I have to get to work before I’m late. “Here,” I say, practically throwing it at him. I run out of the coffee shop before he can reply, and turn around only to see a glimpse of him leaning against the doorway staring after me. 

I run through the sidewalks, dodging strollers, businessmen, vendors. As if my luck couldn’t get any worse, the pillows in the sky release their feathers in the form of a powerful downpour. My body aches from running, but I continue because my self-esteem will ache even more if I’m tardy. Rain pours down on me, undoing my curls which filled me with pride this morning. They lie on my white blouse, or now, a transparent blouse. My red bra shines through, further emphasizing its presence with every raindrop. I mean, I guess that's karma for not doing my laundry. The ginormous “Emmerson & Associates” sign acts as a finish line, and before I know it, I am standing in the lobby of the penthouse suite. 

“Hey Kate you’re-” Marissa says before I interrupt her “I KNOW MARISSA” I blurt, knowing that she only has good intentions. Suddenly every pair of eyes is staring directly at me, or rather, my breasts. As much as I want to scream at them, and single-handedly pluck their eyeballs out of their skulls, I instead march to my office praying not to see Mrs. Emmerson until I look somewhat decent. Knowing what this day had thrown at me so far, I should’ve known she would be sitting behind my desk when I walked in. Her long blonde hair lies flawlessly on her skin-tight designer dress, and as usual, she sports her signature red lip. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind her, which are barely pellucid due to the storm, produce an ominous scene. “Is there a reason for your tardiness Ms. Martin?” she states, her words dripping with hatred. “Yes ma'am, actually the line was ridiculously long at Timeless Bites, and then it started raining, but I knew all the taxis would be busy, so I ran here.” I blurt out. “You’re ten minutes late. You look like you got hit by a train. And my food has probably gone stale.” she replies, practically ignoring my excuse. “I’m so sorry Mrs. Emmerson I can go clean up and get you another coffee and bagel,” I suggest. “No need. You’re fired,” she says blatantly. 

I feel my blood begin to boil, my tear ducts begin to give way. Every cell in my body wants to unleash my fury on this tyrant of a woman, and for once, I don’t resist it. “WELL GUESS WHAT?! YOUR LOSS. I AM THE BEST ASSISTANT YOU’VE EVER HAD. I PLUCK YOUR FREAKIN' POPPYSEEDS OFF WHEN THE CAFE SCREWS UP. I BABYSIT YOUR POOR POOR CHILDREN WHEN YOU’RE OUT WITH ONE OF YOUR BOY TOYS. I JUST APPLIED FOR THIS STUPID JOB BECAUSE I NEEDED SOME EXTRA CASH TO PAY OFF MY LOANS, AND MAN A LIFE IN DEBT WOULD BE MUCH BETTER THAN HAVING TO SEE YOUR PLASTIC FACE EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. SO ACTUALLY, THANK YOU!! I’M FINALLY FREE!.” I scream, months of resentment suddenly being released. Mrs. Emmerson sits in my chair with a shocked expression plastered across her face. With a twist of my feet, I strut out the door, slamming it behind me. My coworkers, well, former coworkers' mouths hang open as the elevator doors close, with me, my red bra, and unemployment in it. 

Before I pass through the doors of 131 Central Avenue for the final time, I force myself to pause, disregarding my determination to leave. Raindrops race down the windows, so that I can barely see outside. Yet somehow, the dark, uncertainty of Bellford City beckons me, even though I stand (soaked) in a brightly lit, modern skyscraper. For so long I have been “playing it safe”, choosing the easy route out of fear of failure. I majored in business in the hope of being able to support my future family, but here I stand, single, unemployed, and disappointed. I didn’t fail, I just succeeded at something that didn’t matter. I succeeded at living a “textbook lifestyle”, at being unhappy.

I often wonder what would happen if I chose to be brave. If I chose to pursue writing. I could be the next JK Rowling for all I know, although that may be too ambitious. Writing is my passion, and succeeding at that while making a measly salary and being truly jovial, would be much more valuable than succeeding as a despondent business assistant with a decent salary. So at 9:14 am on April 2nd, 2021, I choose to walk through a rainy window of possibilities. Of opportunity. 

I exit the building that I once thought was my key to success, and mentally thank it for allowing me to see clearly for the first time. “TAXI!!!” I chant, waving my hand in the air with a smile on my face. Climbing into the car, the driver says “Where to?”. Honestly, I have no idea. But then, a metaphorical lightbulb sparks above my head, “Timeless Bites Coffee Shop please”. The driver nods, and soon enough we sit outside of the little shop with the mysterious barista who dared me to dream. “Thank you,” I say, tipping the driver generously before he drives away. 

I stand outside the little shop, raindrops clouding  its windows. I can’t see what's on the other side, but I’ll never know if I don’t seize the opportunity. I walk confidently through the doors, the overhead bell jingling as I enter. “Hey, you!” the mysterious barista yells. He walks out from behind the counter, his black apron barely covering his large, muscular chest. He looks me up and down, his eyes lingering on my bra which still seems to be exposed.

 “Hey… did I get the job?” I ask unsurely.

He hesitates. “I just wanted to get your name and number so I didn’t exactly look at your resume, but hey, sure, what the heck!!”

“Good move. I guess I’ll be seeing you around more, coworker.” I reply with a grin.

“I prefer my coworkers to call me by my first name, Kate,” he says, clearly remembering my name from my application.

“Well then, what's your name?” I ask.

“Ben,” he replies.

“Well Ben, I’m excited to work with you,” I say, trying to add a small bit of flirtation while still maintaining professionalism.

“Not as excited as me, Kate,” he replies, matching my ratio of professionalism and flirtation.

“I’m not too sure about that, Ben,” I say, fighting the urge to completely disregard being professional.

I extend my arm out to shake his hand, and he extends his. Instead of simply shaking my hand, he welcomes me to the team in a much better manner. He pulls my hand in so that my chest presses against his. With his alternate hand, he places a single finger under my chin, lifting it ever so gently so that I meet his gaze. “Trust me, Kate, I’m far more excited,” he whispers, his voice making every muscle in my body quiver with temptation. Despite the customers, I dare to make a move. I drag my pointer finger above his boxer line, and he emits a barely audible moan. “Once again, I’m not too sure about that,” I say sulturly. He grabs my hand, and we quickly hurry to the back room to avoid the nosy stares of customers. He locks the door behind us, and I hope my suspicions of what is about to occur are correct.

I feel as if I’m starring in my novel, bursting with pleasure. With a single swipe, he clears the table and effortlessly lifts me onto it. My hips, still soaking from the rain, thrust against his. Every inch of my being begs for more, but twenty minutes later, we are both exhausted. Despite the uncomfortable sensation of lying on a kitchen table, we both drift off to sleep.

I wake up to his body facing mine, his eyes still closed. Little did I know, I would wake up to that same face for the rest of my life. I suppose that's what happens when you dare to pass through the rainy window.