First ever attempt at the lsbc sprint challenge by @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers because why not. I sneakily used two of the prompts for this:
1) Barista: About your order…Ma: Yes?Barista: You simply said, and I quote, ‘F— me up, you caffeine cleric.’Me: Yes.
2) What do you call a zombie guitarist? A decomposer!
This is also my first ever attempt at the old coffee shop au thing so...enjoy?
It may not have been the most glamorous job, but for her current situation, it was perfect. The café had been Sabine’s idea initially; as good as their baked goods were, with the rise of supermarkets and convenience shops selling mass-produced loaves of bread for cents, the Dupain-Cheng bakery needed more than just freshness and quality to draw in the custom. Just over the road, a new café had been in the throes of opening up, and a chance meeting between the owner and Sabine over the bakery counter sprung the idea of combining forces.
How the finances and ownership worked was between the various owners of the two businesses, and therefore above Marinette’s paygrade. What mattered was that the relationship had given her a valuable opportunity. Work. Steady work; a pay check every month; flexible hours so she could still build her own online design business on the side; a commute so short even she couldn’t be late.
And, the daily opportunity to brighten days. Something about making people smile through the simple act of providing caffeine and sugar was inherently pleasing. Purposeful, almost. Sure, for every five polite customers there might be one or two nastier ones, but even they weren’t enough to ruin what was a remarkably good deal.
The one grievance she had was the café’s extensive drinks list. So many types of milk to remember, so many different coffee beans. Syrups, toppings, sugars. Foams. And so, to keep herself from making mistakes, she kept a notebook and pen by the counter and religiously wrote down every drink order she received, word-for-word, just to keep her from getting it wrong.
Perhaps she had been doing it for so long, she no longer had control over her hands. Or perhaps it was because on this particular Saturday she had nearly been late after just two hours of sleep. But after listening to her current customer’s request, she reread what she’d written and frowned.
“Umm, about your order,” she said, prompting the man to look up from the confections beneath the counter.
He blinked slowly, like a half-asleep cat, and tilted his head slightly. Even with the shadows around his eyes and the dishevelled hair and clothes, she couldn’t help but notice he was incredibly attractive. High, sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, bright eyes—if currently misted with tiredness. A light smattering of stubble darkened his chin, and he had a guitar case slung across his back. “Yeah?” he asked in a slightly rough voice, as thought he had just woken up. Which, to be fair, he looked like he had.
Marinette swallowed thickly and referred back to her notebook. “You simply said, and I quote, ‘Eff me up, you caffeine cleric.’” He hadn’t said that exactly, but she had felt the need to clean up his language a little as she was, technically, in a professional capacity.
He blinked at her again then nodded. “Yeah,” he said, eyes dipping back to continue studying the pastries beneath the glass top.
“Could, uh…” Her gaze flickered between the man and her notebook. “Could you be a bit more specific?”
He looked back up at her, stuck one hand in his pocket, and deposited a fistful of coins on the counter. “However much caffeine this will buy me,” he said, listlessly.
She nearly asked again for further clarification, but already his eyes were glazing over and his attention was slipping back to the selection of eclairs and topped croissants baked fresh that morning. Concerned he would collapse if he stood up for much longer, she told him to take a seat and that she would bring his drink when it was ready.
The man nodded, reluctantly tore his gaze from the confections, and shuffled off like a zombie. A handsome zombie, but the living dead nonetheless. When she saw he was safely seated, Marinette quickly counted out the money he had given her—more than enough for a coffee—and set herself to work concocting the strongest drink she could legally make. She was the only one on the counter currently, but fortunately, he had come in during the lull between the morning and lunch rush, so the café was relatively quiet.
With the drink finished, she grabbed a chocolate croissant from the counter—he had given her enough for a pastry too—and arranged the cup and plate on a small tray along with a fresh napkin and cutlery—just in case. Before she brought the order over, she scanned the café to check he was still sitting at the same table. He was, though sitting was perhaps not the best word. Slumped would be more appropriate. As she watched, he raised his head just enough to rub his eyes.
He looked like a cardboard box in the rainstorm. Limp, and slowly falling to pieces.
Happy customers she loved. Grumpy customers she could deal with. But sad ones?
Before she could talk herself out of it, she grabbed her pen and another napkin and mentally went through her friend Adrien’s stock of stupid jokes. Landing on the perfect one, she wrote it down then swiftly delivered the tray of goodies to the poor man before she changed her mind.
What do you call a zombie guitarist? A decomposer!
After depositing the tray, she lingered just long enough to watch a slow, tired smile spread across his face, eyes half-lidded, then hurried back to the counter.
Then, the what-ifs came flooding in. What if he thought her attempt at brightening his day was lame? Worse, what if he took offence? Thought that she was saying he looked like a zombie—nevermind that he did. What if he thought the whole situation was so lame and stupid that he never came again?
Marinette barely resisted the urge to slam her head into the counter. Why did that thought bother her so much? Just because he was cute and played guitar and…
Well, darn. That explained it. Despite being twenty now, in the romance department she had failed to progress any further than her years at lycée. Namely: in the presence of a good-looking guy, act like a dork and drive away any potential possibility of a date.
Well, this good-looking guy wouldn’t be back, not after that display.
A blessing in disguise, perhaps. And at least she had gotten over the nervous stutter that had plagued her awkward teenage years.
Nevertheless, she busied herself with menial tasks until a co-worker turned up, at which point she immediately went for her break. When she emerged thirty minutes later, the man was gone.
Luka paused outside the shop. One the one hand, this café was perfectly situated en route between the station and the studio; it was reasonably priced; and the coffee and croissant he’d had last week were, quite frankly, the best he’d ever had.
On the other hand, last week he’d made such a complete and utter pillock of himself that he was half expecting to be tackled if he stepped foot inside again.
Luka prided himself on generally being a chill and put-together individual. Not easily flustered, and always in control of himself. Last Saturday had been…not a good day. A late night Friday gig which had ended at a ridiculous hour, followed by the worst sleep he had ever endured thanks to his pounding headache, and an early alarm set by Juleka who was staying with him because the flat she shared with Rose had flooded. Then, on hearing that the subway he usually got was to be cancelled, he’d had to run to the station to catch an earlier one.
It was only because he had time to spare, and sleep to catch up on, that he decided to go to the new café that had just opened and sit in for a while instead of the generic chain for his usual takeaway cup. He hadn’t known quite how tired he was until he’d been forced to talk to another human, and it wasn’t until after he’d left, invigorated by the caffeine and sugar, that he realised what he’d said.
The poor girl behind the counter must have thought…well…he dreaded to think what she must have thought. After being sworn at—albeit, not aggressively—called a ‘caffeine cleric’, whatever that was, and forced to essentially guess his order because he didn’t have enough brain cells awake to read the drinks menu and pick something, she would surely be horrified to see his face again.
So here he was, standing in the street like a moron because he liked the café but couldn’t stand the thought of seeing her again. In the end, the coffee-lover in him won out, and so he stepped over the threshold.
Damn. She was there, serving another customer. Luka quickly got into the queue and scanned the chalkboard on the back wall, momentarily distracted by the sheer amount of choice. Coffee, with cream, he rehearsed in his head. Keep it simple.
But then his eye caught sight of the pastries beneath the glass counter. Maybe he could grab a snack, now that he was awake enough to enjoy it. A lemon tart, or an almond slice, or…were those macarons? Or a chocolate croissant?
The sight of them thrust him suddenly back into last week, when the woman behind the till had kindly added one to his order. Clearly, he must have looked worse than he’d realised if she thought he needed more than just a coffee. Was that why she’d included that zombie joke?
If he was lucky, she wouldn’t recognise him.
Suddenly, he was at the front of the queue, and she was standing before him with a bright smile, pen in hand. Had she been that pretty last week? Shiny dark hair pulled up in a stylishly messy bun and eyes so blue they were nearly startling.
“What can I get you?” she asked, her cheery grin pushing up into her freckle-dusted cheeks.
…and every word he had ever learnt fell out of his head.
The silence stretched out. He desperately struggled for something to fill it, but all he could think of was their last encounter and how little she must think of him, assuming she did recognise him, which he desperately hoped she didn’t…
“Would, um…”—she was talking again; Luka shut his mouth—-“would you like your usual?”
Oh hell. She did remember.
They stared at each other for what might have been seconds…minutes…hours. Her smile, frozen on her face as his cheeks flushed hot.
Say something, his last remaining brain cell screamed. Quickly!
Luka opened his mouth again and…
“Does it still come with a joke?”
He was sure the entire café heard the sound that final brain cell facepalming.
The woman blushed and buried her face in his hands. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry about that. I thought—that is, you looked—I mean…It was so lame, I’m sorry.”
“No, no,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t…I liked it. It was cute. I should be the one apologising for last week.”
She peeked at him between her fingers. “You liked it?”
“Yeah, it was just what I needed. That and the copious amount of caffeine…”
Her hands lowered just enough for him to catch a flash of her smile. “You looked like you needed it. The caffeine, I mean, not the joke. Although, what I was trying to say was that you looked kind of…um…down? And I thought maybe you needed cheering up, so…”
“Not cheering up, just…perking up,” he said and internally winced. Who said ‘perking up’ these days?
“So.” Her customer-service smile slipped back across her face, but with an added warmth to her eyes. “What would you like? Same as last time, or…”
“Actually, I usually take my coffee with cream,” he admitted.
She gasped. “I am so sorry! That must have been far too strong last time—”
“No, it was exactly what I needed, but today…”
She grinned and nodded then looked pointedly down at the display of sweet treats. “Anything else?”
“What would you recommend?”
This time, he waited by the counter as she made his drink, and carried his own tray topped with the coffee and lemon tart to his table. When he sat down, he found another joke written on his napkin.
What do you call a sad coffee? A despresso!
It quickly became a routine. Every Saturday, without fail, Luka boarded the early subway so that he could spend his morning in the café, drinking milky coffee and teasing the pretty barista about her terrible taste in jokes before continuing on to his band practice.
He found out her name when she asked him why he always called her the caffeine cleric.
“You call me your decomposer,” he’d replied. “What else should I call you?”
“How about my name?” A grin. “It’s Marinette. Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”
It hadn’t taken long for him to realise she was linked with the T&S bakery across the street, which just so happened to supply the café with its beautiful pastries, nor to find out about the fashion business she ran as a side-hustle. It also hadn’t taken long for her to discover that he played with a small, local band called ‘But Why?’.
And if he started sticking his head in on random weekdays he had free, just on the off chance she was working…who could blame him? Certainly not his sister Juleka, who upon realising he was falling quickly and hopelessly in love with the funny young woman, began to tease him. She shut up when he brought her back a bag of goodies from the T&S bakery with threats to never buy them again if she continued.
One Sunday morning, over almond croissants and orange juice, Juleka asked why he hadn’t just asked this girl out already.
“You’ve been staring out the window with that stupid look on your face for ten minutes now,” she pointed out. “For my sake, ask her out.”
“You could just go home,” Luka said.
She snagged another croissant and waved it in the air. “I don’t have these at home.”
“Only if you ask her out.”
The croissant halted mid-bite. A flake of almond dangled on her lower lip. “Hmm?”
Luka sighed and rubbed his chin. “I’ve tried to ask her out but…”
“She rejected you?” Juleka asked bluntly. “Not surprised, you’re a total dork.”
He flushed. “I mentioned a gig we had coming up…”
“I thought it would be less…pressure, you know?”
“Less pressure, or a chance to show off?”
Juleka snorted. “Just tell her you like her and ask her out for coffee.”
“Isn’t that a little much?”
The stare from her amber eyes could have cut diamond. “As long as you don’t take her to some stupidly high-class restaurand and…ask her to marry you on the first date, you’re good.”
His spluttered indignation was lost amid the sound of her laughter.
Nonetheless, the next day—he couldn’t even wait for Saturday—found him standing dutifully in line at the café, heart thumping like a drum kit at a rock concert. There was Marinette, thankfully on shift, hair clipped in an artful spray of black at the back of her head, apron dusted with white powder, eyes glittering.
Her smile widened when he finally stepped in front of her. “Hi, decomposer.”
“Hi, caffeine cleric,” he returned with a smirk.
“Depends,” he said before he could stop himself. “Are you on the menu?”
Marinette’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I…wha-?”
Oh, hell. Too much. But before he could start to backtrack, Marinette suddenly barked out a laugh. “What are you saying, that I look like a croissant?”
“Dude,” said a new voice. Luka turned; the next customer in line was giving him a dirty look. A pit opened up in the base of his belly; he’d completely forgotten about the queue building up behind him. “Leave her alone,” the person continued, “she’s not being paid to be flirted at.”
“Oh no, that’s not—he’s not—um…” Marintte cut in quickly with a wave of her pen. “My friend just has a rubbish sense of humour.”
Relief flooded his stomach. He returned to the counter with a grateful grin. “You can’t talk. What was that last joke you gave me? ‘How did one coffee ask out the other?—”
“That was Adrien’s idea,” she protested, her ears and cheeks turning dark pink. “Do you want a pastry?”
“I always want a pastry.”
“Actually…” Don’t mess it up this time, his last brain cells cried. What did Juleka say? Tell her you like her and ask her to dinner. “If you’re not busy la—”
“If you’re nearly finished flirting with your boyfriend,” interrupted another customer in the queue, frowning so deeply it was reflected in the deep wrinkles in his forehead, “I’d like to order my coffee before Christmas.”
At least, he conceded, the majority of the other customers were no longer glaring at him like Satan incarnate. “That’s all. Thanks, Marinette.”
Marinette, blushing deeper, nodded slowly, reluctantly, and set about preparing his drink as a co-worker emerged to begin serving the next in line. Luka busied himself fishing money out of his pocket, already rehearsing in his mind how exactly he was going to tell Juleka he had failed again to ask her out.
“Luka?” she called quietly a minute later, his order completed. She smiled, face still dusted with pink, and gestured to the tray on the counter.
He picked it up and forced himself to return the smile. “Thanks. Listen, about what I said—”
“It’s fine. I…I have to work. But, um…” She fidgeted and bit her lip, gaze slipping quickly down to his tray then up again. “Have, uh…have a nice day, m’kay?”
She slipped away to return to other customers, and Luka took his tray to the nearest empty table. After a long, desperately needed slug of his drink, he picked up his napkin and nearly choked.
What did the caffeine cleric say to the cute decomposer?
He looked up. Marinette stood beside him, holding a fork. “Marinette?”
“I, uh, forgot to give you this…”
She handed him the piece of cutlery, red in the face, and turned to go but before she could go too far, Luka called out.
“Wait! Marinette, I…” He glanced back at the napkin, then back at her. Was she…? Did she…? “I like you a latte.”
“That’s the punchline, right? I like you a latte? I like you a latte too. I mean, I like you. A lot. Would, um…Would you…”
“I finish at one,” she blurted out suddenly. “If you wanted to…grab lunch, or…”
His mouth relaxed into a wide grin. “I’d love to.”
“Great! I need to get back to, um…but I’ll see you later then.” With a final smile and wave, she disappeared back to the counter. Luka took another sip of his drink to drown the flurry of butterflies waking up in his stomach.
It was, he decided, the best coffee he’d ever had in his life.
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