The white fog slowly embraced the sleeping city. Pinkish rays of sunlight illuminated the closed windows. The wind roared with determination, eager to wake the sluggish stirrers. One, however, caught the nature's attention. She cheerfully opened her bedroom window and welcomed the morning breeze. She jumped out of her disrupted bed, took a meager shower, put on fresh clothes, and was out of the door with a half-cooked toast clamped in between her brushed teeth.
She was excited to start the day. She left her lethargic partner as she zoomed in the cobblestoned street, riding a teal-painted bike. She passed by closed shops and early risers like her. She had one destination in mind and she was eager to reach it. Deathbucks came into her sight and her spring-green eyes glimmered in ecstasy. She literally jumped out of her bike and entered the coffee shop.
The aroma of bread, fresh from the oven, penetrated her tiny nose as she ventured inside the quaint shop. She ravenously stared at the intricately designed pastries lined up behind the glass box. The store was half-empty. Employees cleaning the desks, baristas preparing the coffee, the customers reading the morning newspaper, it was a serene sight to see. She went to the counter, remembering her true purpose.
"A creamy mocha to go, please." She said to the one in-charge with a smile. "Good morning, Maka! What an unusual order. For someone else, I presumed?" He wrote her name on the transparent cup, handed it to his co-worker and asked for the payment. "You presumed right!" She answered with glee. The cashier heartily laughed before giving her change.
She waited at the other end of the counter, fumbling her white gloves in nervous excitement. She only had this idea last night while reading an intimate scene from a book. Coffee means something special to Maka. She believes that the type of coffee you order defines who you are. An explicit type of coffee can mean that you are a complicated person, that you want everything to be in perfect detail. Plain black coffee can mean that you are a simple person, that you don't care about what other people think.
"A creamy mocha for Maka!" The barista shouted. Her train of thought immediately crashed as she reached for the coffee and asked for a coaster. She put it in a brown paper bag, taped it, and put a green Post-it that represents herself. She pulled out a black Sharpie from her pocket and wrote something on the piece of paper.
"Sometimes, finding answers can be a waste of time. But sometimes, the time wasted would worth it."
She went out of the coffee shop, satisfied with the note. She mounted her bike, carefully put the bag in her bike basket and drove into the rising sun.
He heaved out a sigh, composed of meanings much deeper than the ocean. Being stressed is one thing. Being sleep-deprived is another. He stayed up all night, reading paperwork that is unrelated to his main problem. He didn't want to be like his father who was always lolling around. He wants all the work to be done. Although, he can't help but overtire himself. He retrieved another book to add to the references he got for the problem at hand. He went back to his newly made office.
The black doors simultaneously swung open. His desk was unharmed. His things were undisturbed. Everything was still at their symmetric state. Picture frames hung perfectly on the pure white wall. A sheaf of paperwork was stacked neatly on the right side of the desk. The black chair was hidden excellently in its den. His silver laptop was perfectly aligned on the left side of the table. It is truly indeed a remarkable office, for him at least.
The sight baffled him. Nothing was out of sight, except for the brown bag symmetrically placed on the middle of his slick black desk. He carefully approached it, as if the bag was an injured and scared animal. Something green caught his eye. He removed the piece of paper from the package, read it and felt ferocious butterflies in his empty stomach. He immediately recognized the handwriting.
He opened the bag and sighed in utter happiness. Just what he really needs– coffee. It was still lukewarm. The sender was early and was brave enough to access his own office when no one was allowed to enter unless given with permission. He took a sip.
He moaned from the warmth and comfort it gave. It bathed his dry throat and defied his sleepiness. He tasted cream and with a hint of chocolate. Creamy mocha. He smiled again. One of his true favorites and only one person knew about this. He would send his gratitude later. For now, he needs to finish his paperwork and reacquaint with his gang.
Dear readers, whether anonymous or not,
Short, descriptive, full of meaning, I hope you loved it! I really had a hard time writing this. I want you, my readers, to see the message but at the same time, make you feel it. I ended up with this and the quote was thought by moi. Anyway, the whole gang would make their grand entrance next chapter.
Question of the day: What is your favorite type of coffee?
Mine is creamy mocha, like one of Kid's favorites.
Sincerely yours, Star.