IFJ- Amsterdam Coffee House, One and Two

Amster-Goddam Coffee House
“I really want to take off somewhere this weekend,” I said.

He sat looking at me out of the corner of his eye. I avoided his gaze, tapping my foot against the floor. “You’re so agitated lately,” he said.

“I know.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “I’m trying to calm down a bit.”

He arched an eyebrow. “For someone trying to calm down, you sure spend a lot of time at this coffee shop.”

I grimaced and slurped my quad-shot, watching one of the amazing baristas bend over to grab a crumpled napkin from the floor. My eyes flicked over to Invisible Friend Jesus; amazingly he wasn’t watching her, he was still looking at me, a corner of his mouth tucked back. I slumped lower in my chair.

“Do I need to tell you not to come here?” he asked.

“Finally with the guilt,” I muttered.

He grinned faintly. “Guilt doesn’t usually work with you. Besides, you know how to control yourself, Tinkerbell. I’m just worried that you don’t comport yourself with much dignity sometimes.”

I scowled at him from behind my cup. “You expect dignity out of me?”

He broke into a smile, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re right. What was I thinking?”

And the Very Next Day…
“I can’t help but notice that we’re back in this coffee shop,” he said, looking around with raised eyebrows.

I avoided his gaze. “I had to come into town, and I was tired, I needed some coffee.”

He stared at me, his chin resting on his hand. “Didn’t they give you a Starbucks card for reading that short story at the writers’ meeting?”

I hid behind my cup and didn’t say anything.

“Didn’t we pass a Starbucks on our way here?” he asked.

I mumbled something about rampant capitalism and buying local, but he just continued to watch me thoughtfully, slowly rubbing his upper lip with his pointer finger.

I took a gulp of my quad shot, my foot twitching spasmodically. “That girl working the till, do you think she’s a ballet dancer?” I asked. “She looks like a ballet dancer.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

I stared at my lap, rubbing my nose with my fist. “Thanks for hanging out with me, Invisible Friend Jesus,” I muttered sheepishly, and he smiled.

“It’s always an experience,” he said. “Can we go home now?”

I flipped my laptop closed, stuffing it into my backpack. “Okay, but only if you tell me how to get Pers Cavanaugh out of her moral predicament on the drive.”

He laughed. “I don’t negotiate with terrorists,” he said.

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