Page 2 of Beautiful Deceit
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As soon asI open the door my ears are assaulted with the sounds of the city. I paid to have the entry and my studio soundproofed. The landlord wholeheartedly approved, especially since I was covering the costs. Without it, I'd never sleep a wink due to the constant clatter. In addition, I had stronger locks and an intercom installed when I moved in for my own peace of mind. They're worth every penny.
The walk to work is quick, and Anna is waiting for me by the storefront. My lips lift in a natural smile as I see the frazzled woman searching through a giant bag she likens to a purse. She huffs as her phone rings continuously, while remaining out of sight.
"Ah-ha," she exclaims, as she brings the bright green phone to her ear. "Hello....hello?" She pulls the device away and looks down at the screen. Her foot stomps dramatically as she fumes about the missed call. She turns to me. "It was him, Sam. I just know it was him! We had such a good time the other night. I knew he'd wait a day to call, but now I've gone and missed it!" she says bitterly at the missed prospect.
I nod my head sympathetically acknowledging her predicament, even though I haven't been on a date in years. I don’t know why she’s so upset though. Can she not just call him back? I don’t ask, because I can expect a patronizing reply. I reach down to lift the gate that protects my store, letting myself and a still fretting Anna, into the entrance.
"I'm sure you're right Anna. Just check your voicemail." Her eyes light up and she looks down checking the phone again.
"Doesn't look like he left one," she mummers as I fit my key into the old iron lock. As I pull the door open, the smell of old books and coffee invokes a sense of belonging. I've only experienced this in a handful of places since my mother passed. Rita’s house once gave me that feeling before she lost her battle with cancer. My studio is more of a safe harbor than a place where I can belong, but my store greets me every day with this feeling of being a part of something.
I hear the tail end of Anna’s question, as I reset the alarm. "Pardon? I didn't hear all that." She's not bothered in the least by my folly.
"I said. Do you think he'll call again? I mean I hope he doesn't think I'm ignoring him," she frets openly, her hand flitting along the bookcases. I can't remember his name because she dates quite often unlike myself, but I do know her type. I’m sure he's like all the others, rich and good looking. She uses a high-end dating service; she's only 21, but she's looking for a husband.
I sigh.
"He'll call back," I assure her, then quickly change the subject, or she'll have me analyzing his every word. “The new shipment is due today, and I have some online orders to fill. Then I'll check on the inventory when it arrives,” I turn walking toward my office. “Let me know if you need anything else before then," I’m opening the door when she pipes up from the register.
"Where's Jess?” She looks over to the empty coffee station. I rub the bridge of my nose lightly as I scan past the tall bookshelves, over the worn-in sofas and chairs, to the area Jess usually occupies.
"Ugh, today is Monday," I state dumbly.
"Yeaahh," she prompts.
"She went to meet Tim’s family this weekend and won't be back until tomorrow," I make my way over to the coffee machine. It looks like it belongs on the cover of a steampunk novel. It is far more complicated than the Mr. Coffee I used when I began working here in high school. Mr. B upgraded the coffee machine before I bought the place from him. Damn the ever-complicating coffee culture of New York. "Shit. How does she make this look so easy?" I don't even know where to start a brew.
Anna gives me a sympathetic smile from the register across the room.
I find a traditional-looking coffee maker, only larger, and muck my way through making a pot of black tar. The rest of the intricate contraption goes unused through the dayshift. I make a note to give Jess a raise after fiddling with the machine for an hour trying to make a latte. A few customers are disgruntled by the lack of choices, but most seem to be bemused with the increasingly coarse language and continual abuse I give the behemoth machine.
The entertainment is at my expense and so is the tar coffee. I can’t imagine making anyone pay for it.
Jude, the afternoon shift barista, comes in at three, allowing me to abandon the coffee cart for the back room so I can complete the online orders and finally check the status of the new arrivals. I leave the store just after six in old George's capable hands. He’s been working here far longer than me.
I sigh softly in relief as I enter the small grocery store nearest my home because my day is almost over. I pull the list that I managed to write during my lunch break from my purse and begin to gather the items, and even pick up a few that just look good as I shop.
I'm bending over looking at a display of California strawberries, when I feel the front bar of a shopping cart slam into the back of my ankles. I immediately straighten and jump forward to get away from the achilles killer. My leap causes me to knock countless cartons of berries to the ground, a few of the red fruits bursting forth from their packages and rolling onto the floor.
My groan of embarrassment is quickly followed by a deep masculine chuckle. I whip my head around to find a young boy, about 13 years old, pushing the cart directly behind me. That certainly wasn’t him chuckling. If his red face is anything to go by, he’s nearly as mortified as I am. I instantly feel equal parts pity and confusion, as my brain is trying to connect the deep timber of the laugh I heard with this rather timid looking kid.
"I'm so sorry," he stammers just above a whisper. My face softens, and I smile at him.
"No problem sugar," I drawl. The accent I've fought hard to cover pops out unbidden by me. He looks down with a small smile that immediately falls when he notices the massacred fruit near my feet.
"Oh man, my mom’s gonna kill me." There's no fear behind the statement, so I know he won't really be in any trouble.
"I got this buddy, you go on and find your mama. No worries." I tell him anyway.
He looks torn between helping and running, "Are you sure? I really am sorry."
I nod and make a shooing motion with my hands, "I'm sure. Go on now."
I crouch down and begin stacking the unopened containers back onto the display. Only two popped open, as I start to grab the berries from the floor and drop them into the containers, someone kneels across from me and grabs a couple berries from the floor.
"Thank you," I utter quietly as I finish my task, keeping my eyes down. I don't need to see whoever it was that witnessed my embarrassment.
