The early February wind gusted across the streets, giving a bitter effect on the dank morning. Oreo and cookie ice cream colored snow banks lined the streets, like the sentries to passing cars and pedestrians on the sidewalk. A subtle barrier nobody really bothered or cared to do anything about.
The crests of dawn were peering lazily over the horizon in downtown New York city, where one lone woman walked briskly to seek shelter in the nearest local Starbucks, her head down, her russet knit hat restraining partial tendrils of her honey blonde hair, face down and an autumn colored scarf wound around her neck. Her black pea coat gave some warmth, her hands jammed in the pockets.
She hears the bell in the distant revenues of her conscious mind, not knowing that the chime would plague her in weeks to come. She orders a vanilla latte from the barista, her longtime friends Nudge and Olivia. Angel already at her magazine editor's office. Retreiving the warm coffee, she sits in the back corner at a round table, away from the rush and masses of early morning commuters.
"I hate February." She muttered to herself, hands wrapped around the steaming cardboard-paper cup, brooding into the wood grains in the middle of the circular table.
"Hey." A deep voice startled me from my thoughts. I glanced up from my brood, blinking into the overhead fluorescent lights to see a tall dark stranger smiling down at me. I offer a quick and tentative smile.
"Hey." I reply back quietly.
"Mind if I join you? It's gotten pretty crowded." He rubs the back of his neck, his black leather jacket not making a creak and I noticed he wore a black v-neck sweater. I keep my small smile in place and wave a hand at the open chair in front of me.
"Go ahead."
"Thanks." He pulls it out, and I notice curling black script on the inside of his wrist. I remain quiet and take a sip of my latte, tasting the creamy foam.
"My name's Nikolas Ride." He offers his hand.
"Nice to meet you." I shake his warm hand. It was strong and firm, business-like.
"I don't get your name?" I shake my head playfully.
"I don't have a read on your character yet, for all I know you could be a stalker or something. Call me paranoid." He nods his head. "Fair enough."
"What brought you here on a February morning, aside from our oh-so hospitable New York weather?"
"Hey, I like the weather, personally. And my friends are the baristas, so it's a bonus to see them before I go to work. What about you?"
"Ohh I see. Let me guess-no wait don't tell me, my mind reading is telling me…librarian?" His dark onyx eyes are alight with teasing. "No. You're a bookstore worker? Bartender?"
"No, no, and no. Guess again, three chances Rumpelstilzkin." I laugh. Nikolas taps his long fingers on the cup in front of him.
"You're not a model. Too much hassel and you're more of a moral than that. You're not on Broadway, you would'nt be talking to me. So that leaves either a reporter, a writer for a magazine, a singer, or a waitress." I feel my eyes light up at throwing him.
"Take a guess."
"If I guess correctly, will you give me the honor of asking for your name and number?" I pretend to think.
"Maybe." I lean back slightly and take another drink.
"Hmm. Let's see, you obviously like the reds found in sunsets or sunrises. Your friends are protective, they keep glancing over to make sure I don't weave one of my special Casanova spells on you, and black polish on your nails is allowed at your job. You are a jeans and t-shirt or sweats and a hoodie kind of girl. So I say, you're a sports reporter." He leans forward. I smile and copy him.
"I give you partial credit. I work for ESPN and I also sing at the bar my friends and I go to, helping out when needed. And I am also a waitress." I glance at my watch.
"It was a pleasure to meet you Nikolas."
"Please, call me Fang, all my other friends do."
"Alright, Fang. It was nice to meet and chat with you. But if I stay any longer, I'll be late for work. I'll see around, maybe."
"Can I at least get your name?" He asks as I begin to walk away. I pause at the door, my boots making a click sound on the tile, and he was right, I was wearing dark wash jeans and a red sweater.
"Sure." I tell him. He ducks his head trying to hide a smile. His eyes smolder at me from beneath his frame of thick black eyelashes.
"My name's Max." I tell him over my shoulder, tossing my cup and walking away.