Prompt: She makes the absolute worst coffee in town, but he keeps coming to her coffee shop every day to order an extra-large macchiato.
.
The instant he took a sip from the deep brown liquid, he wanted nothing more than to spit it out and toss the brown cardboard cup over the edge of the nearest bridge. Preferably into a ravine.
The only thing, the only thing, stopping him was the hopeful pair of eyes not-so-secretly watching him from behind a case of over-priced pastries.
It would have been impossible to hide anywhere with hair like hers, and he knows that first hand. It still never stopped him from trying to play hide and seek as a child. So, on some level, he understands and continues to let her think he can't see her. When the truth is, he always sees her.
To smother the heat rising in his cheeks at knowing that he too is being watched, he takes another sip. His cheeks at once pale as he swallows down another painful mouthful of his drink. A chill runs up his spine, and he swears he can hear his internal clock tick faster as it settles in his stomach. All and all, it looked like normal coffee. It smelt like normal coffee too. But the second it touches his taste buds…
Does she put mayonnaise in this shit?
He didn't even want to consider it. He had seen what she put on her bread during her breaks, and it was often the most grotesque, should-be-blurred-out sort of concoctions you could imagine.
Not that he was stalking her or anything, he just began to try to come in when she was on her breaks for the stability of his own health.
Unfortunately, that didn't last.
As dense as he was, he could see the subtle fall on her shoulders every time he came in right as she untied her apron. The first few times he had thought it relief on her part; maybe she knew how terrible she was at making Coffee? He soon came to find that was not the case.
It became clear that he was the only customer that really came in for the coffee she served, rather than to gawk at her appearance. And it clicked. Despite her good-service, and obviously hardworking ethic, she was kept on as an employee (despite her clear inability to actually make a decent cup of coffee) because of her looks. She wasn't at all stupid (although she could whip up a nonsensical story like nobody's business) and the few conversations he had managed with her had been downright enjoyable.
So, every other day, he came to the same little shop. With the same little auburn-haired beauty that had taken a piece of his heart with her tiny fist on a cold Tuesday morning, and handed him a cup of coffee. Why? He didn't have a damn clue, even after all these weeks. Maybe it was because she was nice, or because the few conversations he had with her were more engaging than any college class, or maybe it was because her laugh made him feel warm.
He takes another sip of his terrible, awful coffee, and her beaming smile puts the sun to shame.
Ok, so maybe her smile is a big part of it.