A/N: Something simple, something different. I hope you like.
I don't own Twilight.
Change
Change means that what was before wasn't perfect. People want things to be better ~ Esther Dyson
9:00 AM.
I come here everyday, for a cup of coffee.
I prefer it with a couple of packets of cream and sugar, my ex-boyfriend Mike complained that it isn't even coffee, but I don't care.
I do this everyday, as I said before.
The same Starbucks at the end of the road, the same stressed faces disjointed by the cold.
Chicago always seems cold, except for parts of the winter and a the summer.
Today, I decide that I'm going to have my coffee black, black is brave, bold, courageous. All things in which I am not. I am stuck in a box of order, having the same job for 3 years, waking up at approximately seven o'four each morning.
I never divert my plans, because those plans are who I am.
The Barista boy is at the counter, pad in hand, he's always here ready to take my order.
He's cute enough, with his glasses, and brown eyes. He probably goes to Northwestern, he looks like the type.
As I ponder all of these things, I realize that I haven't ordered my coffee yet, I sigh, because it's not the same schedule that I'm accustomed to.
It feels good.
It feels nice.
Nice and good, and lovely, and freeing.
A new person strolls into the shop, he is disheveled and disorderly. He disrupts the order of everything, and all I can do is stare at the man who makes my world suddenly out of order, he calls me like a sweet song on a quiet night.
He smiles, carefree, and sits next to me. His grin takes up his whole face, not a care in the world.
"Hi," he says.
"Hello," I whisper back.
I never talk to anyone in Starbucks, I usually get my coffee and go.
Today, I decide, that I will be brave, different, strong.
The reason Mike and I broke up was because he said that I was 'too set in my ways' and that I was 'boring'.
I could be exciting and fearless, jovial and full of life.
He orders a cup of black coffee, and I do the same. We share secret smiles, we share a secret knowledge.
"Black, eh?" he tilts his head to me in curiosity.
"Black," I tell him confidently.
"You seem more like a cream and sugar kind of girl," he quips.
"How?" I wonder.
I'm genuinely curious as to why he thinks this of me.
Is it because I'm safe?
Is it because I am boring?
I don't want to be safe, I don't want to be boring. I want to be different, and I don't want to be burdened by the words that Mike spoke when he broke up with me anymore. I don't want to be burdened by a safe life, in which I live in regret because I wasn't brave enough to try something new.
"You just seem like a woman who likes order," he says, "your outfit, your hair, everything seems like how you want it. It must be killing you to sit here and not put cream in your coffee, to put your sugar in."
"I'm trying new things," I say simply.
"Why?" he is curious now.
"I don't know," I admit.
Our coffee arrives, two orders of black coffee, it sits on the table steaming hot. It taunts me like freshly baked bread through a window. It says that I am not worthy of being brave. I take the coffee and chug it down, my throat burns and I cough up the coffee.
The pretty man looks concerned, he pats my back. Then softly rubs me up and down.
It's electric, and I'm not used to strangers touching me. I like it.
"You just gulped down hot coffee," he states.
"I know," I roll my eyes.
"You are something...," he trails off, not knowing my name.
"Bella," I say, not Isabella, the name I usually use, "Bella is my name."
"Edward," he holds out his hand to shake.
"Nice to meet you, Edward," I smile, because he's pretty and nice, and his hand is warm in mine.
He gets up from his seat, and slurps his coffee quickly, some of it spills on his fancy shirt. The neat, orderly part of me wants to shriek in horror at how he doesn't seem to care that this shirt is ruined, but this new, brave me, giggles.
"You just spilled that all over yourself," I say, suddenly reaching for a napkin, wiping the access coffee off of him.
His face is flushed as he looks down, and we're close, so close.
His eyes are jade, with golden flecks. His hair is bronze and messy, his lips are red and pouty.
Simply put, he is very pretty.
Off puttingly pretty.
Crazy pretty.
I blush, realizing what I'm doing.
"Sorry, I just need to clean stains," I admit, not knowing why.
He just smirks, "thanks, Bella, I hope I see you again sometime," he says with a smile.
I hope I see you too, I think. You make me want to be brave.