Sofie
This is life now.
Meeting my ambitions at BioKin, with room to grow.
Having the hottest fucking threesome at a nightclub with two of the most comprehensively sexy men I could imagine—knowing a third will be looking at me lovingly the moment I go back to work.
And here I am, getting a fucking latte at the coffee shop by BioKin like it’s fucking nothing. I don’t think I could ask for anything more. Just an ordinary week for me these days, even if buying a cup of coffee is the only thing that feels remotely ordinary about it.
One of my least favorite things about getting coffee in a place like this is the waiting.
Not the waiting on line—that never bothers me much, but it’s the waiting to receive my drink that gets to me for no good reason.
Standing awkwardly by the counter, a few feet away from the cash register where I already paid with a group of other caffeine-starved patrons is something I get through, I understand that part of the coffee shop experience. But waiting for my drink when it is my turn I entirely different for me. I don’t like waiting for something I don’t make others wait for.
That waiting area is where I am right now, though. I gave them my name, my order, and my money, and now I'm playing the waiting game as usual.
And you know what? It’s not getting under my skin today, not at all. Maybe I’m just too happy to care. Which is good, I could use a lot of this mood in my mornings.
In fact, today I'm relying on my latte for a bit of a relaxed company rather than needing it for a “oh God please get me more awake and get me out of my zombie haze of tiredness today” kick that my latte is usually for. Although, I will admit that I haven't been sleeping that great every single night, that's a recent and rather welcome development.
"Sofie!”
Even the mean, impatient barista does not have the ability to ruin my mood today.
Get this: I actually fucking perk up and smile when the barista calls my name. I'm usually moody as fuck at this point, and ready to fucking let somebody have it by the time the barista shouts out my name.
I never do of course, because I realize this is all my internal shit. But today, I don't even feel like that. My smile is for real, and I'm really looking forward to grabbing my warm cup, finding an empty table, and enjoying a few minutes of caffeination before seeing what happens next on what has become my crazy and awesome fucking life.
“Yes! Thank you!”
I’m positively fucking chirping—so much that I’m scaring myself a little—but actually enjoying a local coffee place the way it’s supposed to be enjoyed: as a relaxing spot to slow down and take a few minutes to enjoy yourself. This is in stark contrast to my usual “goddamnit just get me my fucking caffeine before so I can keep existing” type of approach.
Okay, you know what?
Carrying my latte cup through the narrow opening past through all the tall chairs and tables, I realize that I was entirely wrong about waiting for my coffee to be my least favorite part of getting coffee. I don't love waiting, but this part really takes the cake.
Today, as usual, there are not many spots available. So far, every one of the tall, dark green, metal four top tables is occupied by a single person, often with a laptop or tablet along with bags, pens, papers and all sorts of other possessions sprawled everywhere to mark their territory.
Pretty infuriating, right?
Surprisingly, today, it doesn't even begin to bother me in the slightest.
I'm even thinking about how nice it would be to take a walk around the neighborhood with my latte, or maybe I could just wander and enjoy the sunshine instead.
Hey, there’s a table. At a nice spot, too. Maybe it's my attitude, but things are looking up—at least in this coffee shop.
“Hey!”
Oh fucking shit, not now. No, not fucking now, not fucking here goddamnit.
“Sofie!”
Of course it's going to happen, right? Right at this opportune fucking moment. Just when you’re having a good day, and you’re channelling out inner peace.
As I hear Greg approaching, getting closer behind me, I turn around calmly.
He's wearing a wrinkled button-down and slacks, along with bags under his eyes that tell me he may not be sleeping that great these days. He doesn't look good, but, surprisingly, he looks fairly calm. I’m hoping this is a good sign.
As he walks toward me, he seems to be slowing down and calming down more, now that he sees I’m facing him and ready to receive whatever bullshit he's planning to spew right now.
“What is it, Greg?”
I have to make sure he knows that I'm going to listen, because hopefully we can just get the fuck over with it already—like right now would be nice.
“Well, aren’t you just doing fucking perfect. Look at you: you’ve got it all figured out, of course you do.”
I don't know if I've ever felt sad for Greg, but he's dealing with something right now, and I don't know what it has to do with me. Has he not moved on yet?
He stops before getting much closer to me. His eyes are unfocused, and his face is barely hiding his confusion. I doubt he really knows why he’s here, and what he hopes to gain from talking to me.
“Are you okay, Greg?” I ask.
I’m trying to remind him that we’re both human beings, and maybe it’s time to drop this spurned lover shit already.
“Am I okay? Me? You got the nerve to ask me that? Who do you think you are?”
Greg is closing the distance between us—walking slowly, but steadily, in my direction as I stay put and keep my poker face on.
Not only is he dressed so differently from the way I'm used to seeing him, but I'm noticing he's not smelling that great, either.
He stops again, between two tables as everyone around him keeps their noses buried in their phones and laptops, trying with all their might to pretend he’s not there.
It's almost like I'm seeing a different person.
“I’m Sofie, remember? That’s all there is to it, Greg. I don’t think I’m anyone besides that.”
“No, you just think you’re better than me!”
I'm realizing that this is him, alright. A hurt child, surrounded by layers of bluster.
I do feel sad for him, now. But I also don't know what the fuck I'm going to do. How is he not getting the message that I want nothing to do with him anymore?
Then he fucking smiles. Now I’m ready to teleport out of here, to go anywhere else besides where I’m standing, because I really don’t want to know where this is going next.
“You’re no better than me,” Greg tells me with a fake little laugh. “You’re walking around thinking that you’ve fucking won, but I’m here to bring you the truth: you’re no winner.”
The hurt look on his face gives way to smug self-satisfaction. I guarantee that he practiced that speech in the mirror at least a few times.
“You done, Greg?”
Holy fuck, his face is actually turning red. That’s not the response he wants, but it’s the one he’s getting, because I am so over wasting any more time or effort with this shit.
He’s ready to cause a scene, sadly. He’s pointing a finger at me and shaking. I’d give anything just to disappear right now, or at least to fast forward through this shit.
“You fucking…”
“Hey.”
It’s not a loud ‘hey,’ or frazzled even. It’s the calm, subdued type of ‘hey,’ you’d use to get someone’s attention when you’re right behind them.
And that’s where Elijah is exactly, right behind Greg’s back.
Elijah’s even-tempered ‘hey’ is enough to get Greg to stop and turn his head around—which in turn is enough for Elijah to get in a nice right hook, his fist connecting loudly with the left side of Greg’s face.
No chaos ensues, just a quiet ‘whoa’ from somewhere and a bit of murmuring before everyone goes back to pretending like none of us are there. When Greg spins and stumbles, catching himself on a table, the guy sitting there doesn’t even look up from his iPad.
“You’re really going to take things out on Sofie? Take a look at yourself, you piece of shit.”
Elijah delivers the speech clearly and sternly, his voice filling the room.
I never find out if anyone working at the coffee shop takes the situation more seriously than the customers, as Elijah and his chauffeur—who must’ve appeared at some point after the punch—are gently yet quickly escorting me out the door.
I wasn’t expecting this little chain of events.
In a blur, I’m in the back of Elijah’s limo, with Elijah settling in close to me as the chauffeur weaves through traffic expertly, getting us far away from there fast.
“Did that really just happen?”
I listen to myself say the words as I feel the steadying warmth and security of Elijah’s presence next to me. I realize I’m reeling from the madness of the last few minutes. I could even feel faint glimmers of nausea, and shakiness starts to invade random places: my left arm, my right foot.
Fucking Greg should not have this power over me, I can’t give it to him.
Elijah’s arm reaching around my shoulders is like a magical salve as healing comfort flows through me.