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fish circumnavigate an aquarium. His side of the glass, a handful of
coffee addicts artfully ignore each other while keeping their places
by the locked door. Nelse can wait on the coffee.
He cradles the cell phone in his left hand, speed-dialing the
Espresso d number he just programmed. A quick chat with CaraJo.
Who knows? maybe an advance order.
The impressively slim cell phone stutters out beeps and Nelse
yields to maxed-out anticipation: He takes a deep breath. She s
gotta move, pick up the phone on the back wall.
A female voice, synthesized, comes online: I m sorry. The
number you reached is not accepting calls from A ripe pause
and then, 5-5-5-0-9-3-1, which Nelse, shocked, must accept as
his number. The other side of the glass, CaraJo floats about her
chores, does not miss a beat.
Please hang up your receiver and feel free to contact our
offices during normal business hours for more information. Thank
you.
He bites his bottom lip. Geez, Louise. Why d she block my
number? He folds the cell phone in two clicks and belt-clips it. She
moves now in a fluorescent-lit interior.
Minutes dissolve as he gathers clues. Does she start the shift
pulling barista duty or working the till? The register s his bet as she
comes to the front door and gives the lock a determined twist. No
complete laggard for caffeine shots, he s out of the Alfa, a Pier 1
bag in hand.
Soon enough, he s at the register, sliding a skinny latte doppio
on the counter. Hands over a five-dollar bill, drops the change
two dollars, coins in the tip jar.
Got something, gonna make your life a whole lot easier.
Okay, she replies with forbearance, skepticism.
You clean up tables, use this. One, two swipes, all it takes. A
natural sponge, he explains, from the waters off Madagascar.
Forget those cheesy sponges they make you use here.
Anything else? Poised and undeflected, CaraJo glances at the
customer to Nelse s right.
Yeah, when do we get together?
Why?
Our talk, you know, yesterday. Give it any more thought?
Listen, this is work, I ll talk to you in a min. Her fingers
dance at the register keys, ready to rack up the next sale.
Nelse sits down, sips. He has to tell her he wants to bring his
camera, photograph her, get that glamour on film. She didn t say
no. He feels good, optimistic.
He s right. A few minutes later, CaraJo hurriedly sits beside him
saying, Gotta tell you, first time out with a guy, I only do lunch.
This is no auditory hallucination. These are true words. At this
moment, he wouldn t think of leaving the table for anyone less than,
say, Elle MacPherson. Just a short, quick lunch for me, huh? He
wants to act like his pride is wounded, but he fails. He chuckles at
how everything has worked out just as he planned.
Don t laugh. You re lucky. I used to keep it to coffee breaks,
but that, that was too much like work.
This latter admission Nelse takes as proof of her irrepressible
humor. And with her looks, what more could he want in a woman?
He remembers the camera, the quest to photograph her perfection.
Yeah, a coffee break should be a coffee break. Say, I ll bring my
camera, document it all, this lunch will live in my memory forever.
CaraJo is out of the chair, her eyes agitated at new customers
coming in. Take pictures, do whatever. Remember, I can only fit
lunch in my schedule.
Like that, she s back working the till, and Nelse, with no small
contentment, turns his coffee cup in small increments and mentally
flashes on a scene.
He drinking in CaraJo s beauty, the two of them outdoors at a
round, enamelled metal table, which sprouts a sun umbrella, the
Espresso d logo writ large in white on each of its six dark-olive
canvas panels. The two of them savoring the delicacies he brought:
warm baguette and Brie and salmon pâté and caviar lots of
choices and finishing with in season strawberry shortcake washed
down with Espresso d coffee, the latter, natch, to claim the table.
And Evian water it would all fit in the wicker basket, china and
silverware too.
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