Encantober 2024 Bingo: Coffee
He hadn't meant to sit at the counter. Normally Bruno was content to hide away in his chair in the fiction section, enjoying an espresso and buried in a book at the end of the day. But school had started, and while it was nice do not have the local kids underfoot at the rebuilding site constantly--the younger ones still gawked at him and it was unnerving--he hadn't put two and two together and realized that they'd be here, laden down with new assignments from Señor Alvarez. A fleeting glance saw them all with older newspapers and magazines, frantically scribbling down current events.
So the counter it was. Señora Pascual had been congenial when he'd muttered his usual order, giving a little eep of surprise when he'd stayed at the counter. He tried to relax against the feeling of eyes in his back as she bustled away to the check out counter on the bibliotheca side of the building, annoyed with himself he'd been unable to brave the shelves. 'Should have done it, cobarde,' he grumbled to himself. 'Some man you are, can't even handle a few eyeballs pointed at you anymore.'
He'd thought he'd been getting better; three months into the reconstruction of Casita, and things had been getting easier. His sobrinos were more at ease teasing him over his silly workman character, who he'd been relying on less and less. Julieta had sent him to the market earlier in the week and he'd done very well, only stammering a few times and only forgetting the cassava flour. But apparently his limit was twenty-odd teenagers cluttering up the café tables at an establishment he'd been visiting since it's first week in business.
He startled when a little blue volume of poetry appeared at his elbow.
"Newer poet, Nydia Lamarque. Not my favorite but seems like something you'd like, Señor Madrigal. Sorry about the kids, I know the aisles are a mess," Señora Pascual said offhandedly as she poured herself her own cafecito. He nodded mutely and flipped it open, curious. There weren't nearly as many women published, and he'd always liked the difference in perspectives. He said nothing of the consideration, his ears were burning enough to give him away.
He lost himself in the work and his espresso, not noticing when it was refilled or when the light grew long across the countertops. He'd always preferred the way she made her coffee drinks to the scant few other cafes in town, most of them window businesses or a side hustle of one of the coffee orchard owners. No stranger to experimentation himself, he appreciated the dash of salt and cinnamon she'd always snuck into his, undertones enriching the flavor. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed fresh coffee in general and the fare at Café de Libros in particular the last decade. Reusing spent coffee grounds was a crime, but it had been all he'd had. Guilty as he felt about retreating here when things at Casita's rebuilding got to be too much, rather than the borrowed rooms at the Constantino's place, he couldn't quite bring himself to give up the habit. He had nothing resembling a sensible sleep schedule anyway, and the caffeine kept him from falling face first into his dinner most nights.
Señora Lamarque wasn't quite to his tastes either, but he was intrigued enough to want to finish the little volume. He startled again when he heard the clinking of a cup near him. Señora Pascual, lost in thought and not noticing how close she'd drifted. He hid his face in the book to cover the heat rising. No one leaned that close to him on purpose, especially not soft younger women. More especially not soft, pretty younger women who were still single. He swallowed nervously.
"You can take that one home, Señor, but I'm closing for the evening," Señora Pascual hummed. He dared a glance, taken aback by the gentle, somewhat sad look she wore.
A deft hand slipped under the front cover of the little volume and swiped the card, quick as a thief, but her fingers brushed against his as she went and he felt his blush spark anew. Señora Pascual sauntered on to the circulation desk like she hadn't noticed, and perhaps she hadn't. The faint brush of a hand wouldn't register to someone bold enough to brave the mountains and the city four times a year. He fumbled through a polite goodbye and made his way out of the shops, missing as he did so the answer to his own blush that colored the
A deft hand slipped under the front cover of the little volume and swiped the card, quick as a thief, but her fingers brushed against his as she went and he felt his blush spark anew. Señora Pascual sauntered on to the circulation desk like she hadn't noticed, and perhaps she hadn't. The faint brush of a hand wouldn't register to someone bold enough to brave the mountains and the city four times a year.
He fumbled through a polite goodbye and made his way out of the shops, missing as he did so the answer to his own blush coloring Señora Pascual's cheeks.