By Kameron Ray Morton
You meet him at the coffee shop on the corner, one block from your apartment and two and a half from your college. You got up for a second to warm up your coffee and now there’s this guy unpacking his backpack at your table, putting his books right next to yours.
“Can I help you?” you ask.
“You’re the one sitting here?” he says, pointing at your papers and pens. “All the other tables are full, so.”
So. It’s not a very proper way to end a sentence. Telling him to leave would make you look like a bitch which means you’re stuck with him. This is what you get for writing papers in crowded places.
“I’m David,” he says, his hand out. You shake. “I’m Marcela.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Marcela,” David says, giving your hand a squeeze before letting go.
You sit down in your seat and start back on your research, trying to find the common themes between Dracula and Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. You’ve spent three pages on the significance of technology and you don’t know what to talk about next.
“Black coffee, huh?” David says.
You look up from an article about Albus Dumbledore you’d printed two hours earlier at the school library for free. David is smiling at you, using his straw to scoop whipped cream off the top of a drink more sugar than caffeine. You aren’t interested in conversation. It’s bad enough that he’s sitting at your table. Trying to talk is only making things worse.
“I don’t even like coffee,” David says. “I like coffee shops, though.”
You nod and smile then go back to underlining a sentence you find interesting even if it’s not relevant to your current assignment.
“You’re an introvert,” he says. “That’s okay. I’ll just talk; you don’t have to answer.”
You consider throwing some sarcastic comment at him but don’t. Let him chatter at you. You can tune it out.
“I’m supposed to be studying for my psychology final,” he says. “What you’re doing looks a lot cooler.”
“I’m writing a paper about the parallels between Dracula and the first Harry Potter book,” you say, talking only because he gave you ‘permission’ not to. “I pitched it to my professor and he told me it was impossible. I’m starting to think he was right.”
David is thrilled that you’ve volunteered this piece of information about your life.
“I’m sure you’ll prove him wrong,” he says. He means it.
He starts to study, scanning the lines of a highlighted textbook. He’s looking down, letting you see just how long his eyelashes are.
“Do you typically study here?” you ask. David likes to talk and while you don’t, you feel like you should try and make conversation with him. You tell yourself that it has nothing to do with the way his eyelashes look against skin the same shade of brown as yours or how his nose is too big in a way that’s endearing.
“I’m usually at the library,” David says, looking up from his book with a crooked smile. “I’m sick of studying so I thought a different place might get me back into it. I didn’t expect it to be so crowded in here.”
“It’ll clear out in a half hour or so,” you say. Then add, “You can keep sitting here, though. If you want.”
You don’t want him to think you want him to leave. He’s not really your type, but he is cute and you kind of want him to keep sitting with you.
“Thanks,” he says, his smile full now and prettier than you thought it would be.
He sits at your table for another two hours. You take turns buying each other drinks, only leaving because your roommate Alex is texting you to take a break and meet him for dinner. He’s homesick so he made pupusas. It’s the first time either of you have cooked in weeks so you feel like you owe it to him to go back to the apartment, even if you’d much rather stay.
“I’m going to be working here at the same time tomorrow,” you say. “Should I save you a seat?”
“Definitely,” he says. “I’m already looking forward to it.”
Maybe he is your type.
The next morning you venture out of your room to make coffee and heat up leftover pupusas for breakfast and see Alex on the couch when he’s supposed to be in class. You should be thinking about how to wrap up your convoluted paper but instead you’re thinking of the dresses in your tiny closet and which one David might like seeing you in.
“Are you sick?” you ask as you walk by Alex. He has the TV on which is odd. You’re the one who insisted on splurging for cable when he thought Netflix and Hulu were plenty.
“Terrorists blew up the subway station at Times Square,” Alex says, pointing at the screen. “That’s the guy. First suicide bomber in the States.”
You look at the picture on the screen and it’s David. He’s smiling the same smile from yesterday and his eyelashes are just as long as they were yesterday and you still find his nose big and endearing. They’re already talking about possible motives, tossing the words terrorist, radical, monster, around from correspondent to correspondent. You see David sitting across from you saying he doesn’t like coffee. No matter how hard you try, you can’t apply those words to the guy you met yesterday.
“Marcie?” Alex says. He only calls you that when he thinks you’re about to cry.
“I recognize him,” you say. “I saw him yesterday.”
You don’t say you talked. You don’t say how kind he was. You don’t add anything, not wanting him to know you thought that he might be your type.
“Yesterday?” Alex says. “Holy shit. You have to tell the police.”
“Do they know why he did it?” you ask, taking a few steps closer the TV.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Alex says. “You have to call the police.”
Death totals, injury totals, the total time it took to identify David as the killer. The newscasters are speaking in numbers and a hotline is at the bottom of the screen waiting for someone to dial.
“I’ll call,” you say. “I just need a minute, okay?”
Need a minute to think, need a minute to breathe, need a minute to stop thinking of David as that cute guy you were going to see again today. More than a minute to think of him as what he really is.
“Marcie,” Alex says. Gets up. Gives you a hug. “I’m so sorry.”
What for? you think. Clearly you didn’t really know him.
You change the topic of your paper because Harry Potter and Dracula just make you think of David. Enough time passes for your professor to hand back that paper and assign another but you’re too busy doing your own research to work on whatever he thinks is important. You look up motivations for terrorists and how they plan their attacks. You can’t fathom how they can grow up in the States and have a life, be friends with people, and still go through with it. How does someone live with that much hate?
You never called the police, even though Alex pestered you to. You heard him talking about you last night to his brother. He was speaking Spanish, thinking you wouldn’t know what he was saying even if you were listening. He always forgets that you may not be able to speak Spanish but you’ve heard your parents so much that you can understand it as well as he can.
“I’m telling you, she’s cracking up,” he’d said. “She’s become obsessed with that terrorist guy.”
You don’t think you’re obsessed. You’re just trying to come up with some answers. What if you’d been on that subway? What if David had seen you there, made eye contact with you? Would he still have blown himself up?
What’s wrong with you that you didn’t realize what he was when he sat down at your table?
“What are you looking at?”
You quickly close your laptop, not wanting Alex to see that you’re still researching terrorists. You’re sitting on the floor with your books and papers spread out on the small coffee table creating the appearance of being productive.
“Just checking my email,” you say. “Is Justin coming over tonight?”
Alex met Justin at a candlelight vigil for the victims of the subway bombing. You aren’t sure how he managed to get a date at that thing, but bringing up Justin is the best way to get Alex to stop bugging you about your ‘obsession.’
“I’m going over to his place tonight,” Alex says. “He actually cooks, not just microwaves things. I can’t believe it.”
“Exciting,” you say.
David’s parents have been getting interviewed on news show after news show for weeks now. His mom cries every time. You haven’t seen all of those interviews yet. Maybe his dad mentioned making breakfast on Sunday morning with him or his mom taught him the perfect soup to cook on cold, rainy days. If you looked, maybe you could find—
“Marcela? Where’d you go?”
“I just spaced out for a second,” you say, trying to smile. “You were talking about Justin cooking, right? You should make him something sometime. I’d help you with tamales.”
“You’re still thinking about that guy,” Alex asks, ignoring your attempt to distract him. “It’s been over a month. You should be over it.”
“I am over it,” you say, even though you know it’s not true. “It’s just hard not to think of it sometimes. It’s still all in the news.”
“You don’t watch the news,” Alex says. “You made me turn it off last night when they
started talking about what they found on his computer.”
You don’t have a good response so you keep your mouth closed. The worst part of all of this is you know Alex has a point.
“Have you even been back there?” Alex asks.
“Back where?” you say.
“Where you met the terrorist,” Alex says. “What’s it called? Sacred Grounds or something?”
You start to remind him that ‘the terrorist’ has a name, a good name that his parents picked for him that helped shape who he was, but you don’t think that would go over well. Alex, like the rest of the world, does not have much sympathy for mass murderers. You aren’t sure why you do.
“I just haven’t wanted to go,” you say, trying to sound casual about it.
“You love Sacred Grounds,” Alex says. “You made me walk an extra two blocks to get coffee one day so we could go there.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be leaving to go meet Justin?” you say.
“You’re right,” Alex says, a smirk settling on to his face. “Sacred Grounds is on the way.”
“There’s no reason for me to go to Sacred Grounds,” you say, picking at the skin around your nails. You thought you’d kicked that habit in high school but it’s come back worse than before.
“You were complaining this morning about having to write another paper,” Alex says, standing up. “Hurry, I don’t want to be late.”
“I don’t have to go to Sacred Grounds to write a paper.”
“You never do homework here. Ever.”
“I do sometimes.”
“Stop trying to argue,” Alex says. “We’ve got two options. Either you let me walk you to Sacred Grounds and you go in to work on your paper, or I cancel with Justin so we can talk about whatever is bothering you.”
“Nothing is bothering me!” you say, tired of his insistence that something’s wrong.
“Great,” Alex says. “Then get your stuff together so I can walk you.”
Alex wouldn’t leave to go to Justin’s until you actually walked inside, so now you’re standing in the doorway, looking around for a place to sit that isn’t that table. No one is sitting in the armchairs and while you’d rather work at a table, the only one free is that table, and you can’t sit there.
You leave your bag in one of the chairs and walk up to the counter, trying to remember how much money you have left in your bank account. Worrying about David-who-doesn’t-like-coffee and his relationship to David-the-terrorist has left little time to think about things like finances.
“Small mocha, please,” you say, smiling at the barista.
“Marcela, right?” she says, already writing your name on the cup. “You haven’t been here in awhile. I was starting to get worried.”
“Oh, I’ve just been busy,” you say, feeling bad for not remembering her name.
“That’ll be four fifteen,” she says, looking up and smiling at you.
“Thanks, Allie,” you say, glancing down at her name tag.
“I don’t blame you for not wanting to come in,” she says, taking your card. “I had to take a few days off of work myself, and I didn’t even talk to him for that long. You were actually on a date with him.”
“It wasn’t a date,” you say, knowing exactly what she’s talking about. “He just sat down. I’d never even met him before.”
“Still,” Allie says, handing the card back. You’re relieved that it went through. “It has to be weird for you. He seemed so nice, you know?”
“He was,” you say, taking your card back and tucking it back into your wallet. “I mean, he was nice to me, at least. But he couldn’t have actually been nice, considering what he did.”
“I don’t know about that,” she says, frowning a bit. “I mean, he was a person after all. Him being nice doesn’t mean he was a good person, just like him being a terrorist doesn’t mean he wasn’t nice.”
“I guess that makes sense,” you say, even though you aren’t sure it does.
“Anyways, your drink will be ready in a minute,” Allie says, a pleasant smile on her face, like she hadn’t just said that David-the-terrorist was perfectly capable of being a nice person.
You wander back over to where your bag is and glare at the armchair for not being a table. You glance around the room, hoping that maybe someone has left since you ordered your drink, but every table is still full. Every table except for that table.
You pick up your backpack and drop it on that table, because you like that table, and you’ll be damned if David is going to stop you from sitting there.
Even if he was your type.
Kameron Ray Morton is an MFA candidate in fiction and translation at Columbia University. Their fiction has appeared in Eclectica Magazine, Soundings East, and Valparaiso Fiction Review, among others, and their flash fiction “Broken” received Honorable Mention in Coastal Shelf Literary Magazine’s The Ceiling 200 Contest. They feel pressured to drink less coffee, but find their best ideas emerge from a caffeine-induced high. Find them on Instagram @tallsoyflatwhite or online at https://kameronraymorton.com/.