I didn’t hate coffee or even dislike it, but I didn’t have any strong affection for it either. I came to the local coffee house to work on my writing because it had a nice atmosphere—and it was open 24 hours. In my head it seemed the perfect place to play at being some kind of noir character: receptionist by day, writer by night. Boring jobs inspire that kind of imagination. And some people—like myself—never grow out of it. My ritual was simple. Every night after work I’d put on something that made me feel artsy and take my notebook and pen, and sometimes a book, to the Hazelnut House.

The Hazelnut House did business from the corner lot of an old building between the grocery store and the new high tech buildings. The best part of the HH was the upstairs. It had originally been an apartment designed for the proprietor’s residence back when the place had been a deli. The inner walls of the second floor had been gutted and replaced with open-ended cubbies and fish tanks that made a sort of translucent maze, around each corner of which were mis-matched overstuffed chairs, tables and tacky lamps. After stopping at the counter for a cup of coffee, I would make my way upstairs to find a corner where I could set and work. Though I think I spent a good deal of time staring at the tacky lamps.

My artsy item for the night in question was a black felt fedora. I loved the darn thing, I really did, but I just couldn’t muster the chutzpah to wear it in the sunlight. In retrospect I suppose that was a good thing since the black felt made quite a heat trap. My daytime self would have gone into apoplexy at the thought of sweat on my forehead. But, it being late November I wasn’t begrudging the extra warmth just yet. I was still in my work clothes from earlier—a black skirt suit and a plain white button-up blouse—because I was feeling the drag of the week, and the lack of color suited my mood. I was brooding, so I was trying to write a brooding story. I wasn’t getting very far.

The only available seat was the one near the restroom and the top of the stairs. Foot traffic. Highly distracting. I sighed and sat down. No one ever wanted to sit in that corner. The chair in that corner wasn’t as worn in as most of the others. It was stiff. I hoped the discomfort would aid my brooding. All it really accomplished was a lot of shifting, and an excellent observation of the seahorses in the fishtank next to me. Every time the bell on the door rang I found myself looking up. I kept reminding myself how I didn’t care. In the end I decided I needed another cup of coffee. Caffeinated thinking is like drunken thinking. I couldn’t sit still and somehow convinced myself I would do well to have more caffeine.

Two hours and four lines of writing later I had an urge to do laundry. Little did I know that I was having a premonition.

Six noisy teenagers piled in and one of them was shaking the door to make the bell keep ringing. In the ruckus I managed to break myself of my need to glance at the door with every ring of the bell. I just closed my eyes and crossed my fingers as the bell kept ringing, hoping they would not come upstairs. I knew if they did, it would be the last straw, for the night anyway. When I heard footfalls on the steps behind me I began to pack up my things. With novel, journal, and notepad in hand I rose and turned to go. I didn’t even have a chance to make a sound before the hot coffee splashed all down the front of my chest.

Afterwards, however there was all the time in the world to screech about scalding hot coffee. I dropped my things and grabbed the front of my soaked shirt, trying to pull it away from my skin. I barely saw the guy who’d bumped into me—I think he had dark hair—then dashed for the bathroom, the door of which was right next to the top of the staircase. It was a one-stall bathroom, and the only one as it was for both men and women. I was standing by the sink, still holding my shirt off of me, trying to mop up the coffee, and clean myself all at the same time when the door opened. I had been in a minor panic on my way in and neglected to lock the door. I didn’t turn around because I expected whoever came in would see what was going on and leave on their own.

“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t even watching where I was going.” I wasn’t really listening, but the words sounded like the kind of thing to come from a person who’d just barged in on someone in the bathroom. I didn’t even look up. I heard the sound of the door closing again and my coffee sopping never broke stride.

“Em, you dropped these. I em—.“ My head whirled so fast it made me dizzy. There he was, the dark-haired guy, still standing in the bathroom, holding my books and my hat. I didn't even remember it falling off. “Sorry I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s all right. You just startled me.” He just looked at me, a thoughtful expression, but I couldn’t guess what he was thinking. I turned my attention back to my mess. “I thought I was alone.” That last was supposed to be a hint. Coffee was still dripping from the hem of my blouse, now making a puddle on the top of my shoe.

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that—” I was feeling in a huff, but when I looked up at him, the expression on his face changed my tone mid-sentence. “three times.” His hair was curly too.

“I meant it.” He set my books down on the edge of the sink and fumbled with my hat before deciding to hang it on the doorknob, then grabbed the hem of his brown sweater and pulled it over his head. “That’s hopeless. Just take it off.”

My mouth was hanging open. Thank goodness he didn’t see it. He was busy fishing his undershirt out of the sweater. I could see the goosebumps spread over his arms, and his face flushed. The contrast of his bare skin against his dark jeans and the white tile walls drew my attention like a siren song. His expression looked like he couldn’t decide whether or not to laugh. I was still frozen, the puddle on my shoe getting bigger and soaking through to my sock—yes sock. Despite the suit I had changed into my sneakers after work.

“I didnae mean for that to come off too.” He said with a quirky grin as he pulled the thin white shirt back on over his head. I suddenly realized he had an accent, but I couldn’t think to try and place it. I was still staring; I found myself waiting for his dark curls to re-emerge from the neck, and at the same time lamenting the concealment of his skin. He held out his sweater to me. “It’s clean I promise, and it doesnae even smell.” My eyes followed his arm down to his hand to the sweater. “You’re wet, and it’s cold, and it’s my fault. I wouldnae want you to get sick because I’m clumsy.”

I felt the wet cloth between my fingers, then let it drop. It made a smacking sound against my skin. The sweater did look awfully warm and dry. Locker rooms never bothered me but I was suddenly shy to take off my shirt. I could feel my ears getting hot.

“I promise not to look while you dress.” Then he smirked, a little impish half-smile, his green eyes dancing.

Oh no, he did see me staring at him! “I, uh, I’m sor—“

“Do nae worry about it. I’m flattered. Now I’ll turn around and you get dressed.” He pushed the sweater at me and faced the wall. Then very quietly, “Besides thanks to that coffee you don’t have to take that shirt off to show me anything.”

I looked down and saw that my white shirt had been rendered a kind of sepia translucence where it clung to me. Sighing, I began to unbutton it. At least I was wearing a pretty bra.

Just as I had rid myself of my wet shirt, the door began to open again. Instinctively I clutched the sweater to my chest and took a step to the side, placing him between me and the opening door. He walked right up to the widening crack and filled it. "Sorry mate, it's occupied. We'll be out in a bit." The door closed and he picked up my hat and held it. "Don't let him rush you; take your time."

I know his back was to me, but somehow I couldn't help but think he knew I was staring at him again. I was mesmerized. I think I had stopped breathing. He rolled his shoulders and exhaled just loudly enough for me to hear. Maybe he was reading my mind. I blushed and put my arms into the sweater.

Just as I was pulling my hair out of the neck it came to me. “You’re Scottish!”

He laughed. “Yes, I’m Scottish, but my friends call me Gerry.” He held out his hand.

I shook it, “Kim Seth.”

“Gerard Steward, but remember: just Gerry.” He smiled and I pulled my hand away to tuck my hair behind my ear, which seemed to make his smile widen. “Sorry about your shirt. It’s probably ruined, eh?”

I shrugged, being clothed and dry again, some of the panic had gone. But only some. “Thanks for the loan of the sweater.” I looked away from his penetrating gaze to roll up the sleeves. “If you give me your address I’ll mail it back to you.”

“What are you doing tonight? Maybe I could give you my address and you could come by for dinner.”

“Will there be coffee?”