The Hipster Chronicles

by Faith Andrews

  “Better?” I asked.

  “Much.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “No worries.”

  This being nice thing without cracking inappropriate jokes was harder than it seemed. I felt tongue-tied without the defense of my tried and true sarcasm. I could sense Jane felt the same as she perused the small room filled with lockers, chairs, and a water cooler.

  After ogling a second too long over how timid she’d become, I made my way over to Shelby’s locker—which she always left open—to look for something suitable for Jane to wear. Rummaging through a mess of unopened mail, crumpled napkins, a pair of ugly Crocs, and lots of female toiletries, I found something promising. “Do you mind green and yellow plaid? I actually think it’ll go perfectly with your eyes.”

  She smiled shyly when she retrieved the garment from my hands and then ordered me to turn around with the twirl of her index finger.

  “There’s a bathroom, you know?”

  “Yeah, in the dark. I’ll trust my luck out here instead; just don’t get any ideas by sneaking a peek.”

  I arched a brow, a dirty comeback on the tip of my tongue, but I thought better of it in light of how nice it was to actually be getting along with her rather than at each other’s throats. Although, being at each other’s throats had sparked an aggressiveness in her that I hoped would resurface before the night was over. What? You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

  Crossing my heart, I nodded and did as I was told. “Want me to check for a pair of pants too?” I asked as I stared ahead into blank space, fantasizing about what her pert breasts looked like underneath her clothing. Were they more than a handful, or less? Were her nipples a rosy pink, standing at attention because of the circumstances? Was she soaked down to her bra, and needed to shed that too? Or did she even wear one at all? God, the possibilities were endless, and much like the anticipation of solving a mystery, what the mind invented in the crevices of its wonderings could drive a man mad.

  “You all right over there, Ezra?”

  “Um . . . yeah,” I croaked, covertly adjusting my crotch. To my surprise, the mere thought of her naked body right behind me, so close, had my dick straining against my jeans.

  “You can turn around now,” she finally said.

  But I wasn’t sure I should. It was dark but I was tenting big time and I didn’t want to get her all worked up again. Wait. Let me rephrase that: I totally wanted to get her worked up again, just not in the way I knew she would if she saw that the head in my pants wanted to get to know her before the head on my shoulders did.

  “Fits like a glove,” I mumbled, walking past her and gesturing for her to follow me back out front. Our quarters were too close in the lounge and I couldn’t trust myself not to go back to my old ways of flirting and teasing her onto my lap again.

  “So . . .” I finally said, trailing off with a smirk she couldn’t see. “You mentioned research. How ’bout I set us up with something to snack on and then you fill me in? Looks like we have all night. Might as well make it a working evening since you’re on deadline and all. Whadda ya think?”

  Her gulp was audible; her embarrassment almost was too. I relished the idea of putting her on the spot and making her squirm the way I had while she was undressing behind me only moments ago. Something told me Jane’s secret project was very interesting.

  WE SAT TOGETHER in a booth adjacent to the table she usually parked herself in during the day. I’d scrounged up a few still-decent croissants and muffins, and created her signature beverage like a boss. A green tea with lemon was my poison tonight, though a few finger widths of scotch or whiskey would have been much better.

  The storm had subsided somewhat, although every now and then a rumble of thunder caused Greta . . . I mean, Jane . . . to look my way. My fingers longed to touch her skin; my lips tingled with the thought of hers on mine, but I kept my hands to myself and my dick in my pants because we were getting along in the peaceful silence by the glow of a single-bulbed flashlight. I ignored the elephant in the room—her mortified expression at the mention of her secret project—as long as possible, hoping she’d spill the beans on her own. She picked at the cranberry muffin like a cautious bird, hardly ever making eye contact.

  I decided to break the ice because my curiosity was killing me. My fingers made a show of dramatically rubbing my beard. “I’m thinking of shaving it,” I blurted out of nowhere.

  Jane’s eyes abandoned the muffin and popped open, homing in on mine. “The hell you are,” she spoke matter of factly.

  Taken aback but loving every minute of her bluntness, I narrowed my eyes in question. “What’s it to you, huh?”

  Jane took a deep breath and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. I could tell she was nervous because her hands were busy with mindless tasks—making a pile out of muffin crumbs, smoothing her fingers through long strands of dark hair, wiping the corners of her pretty mouth. When she finally rested them on the table in front of her, I reached forward and clasped my much larger hands over hers. “Would you sit still? You’re making me dizzy.”

  “Dizzy,” she mumbled with a chuckle. Her green eyes met mine again and I couldn’t help but bite my bottom lip to stop myself from saying something inappropriate.

  What she said next, though—all bets were off after that.

  “The beard stays. I like it. Even if it is a bit . . . generic.” She was fucking with me but it was all in good fun because I could tell she didn’t give a shit that it was generic. She dug it! I knew it! Before I could ruin the moment by babbling something along the lines of I told you so, she continued. “It’s kind of what got me here in the first place. You. You’re my research, Ezra.”

  I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or offended, but either way this got my attention. “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  She removed her hands from beneath mine and started to fidget again. She lost her perfect posture and slouched into the upholstered booth. Closing her eyes and gnawing on her lip, she divulged her best kept secret. “I’m writing a screenplay for a class, and you—well, someone based on you—is the lead character.” If not for the fact we were locked in here against our will, I expected her to jet out of here faster than I could say manbun.

  But I wasn’t letting her off easy. No fucking way. All this time I’d been practically obsessing over her and she was writing a goddamn story about me. This was too good to be true. “You totally want me, don’t you?” I leaned over the table, resting my chin in my hands and batting my eyelashes obnoxiously.

  Her defenses were up but her eyes told a different tale. “Who said anything about wanting you? I’m intrigued by you, for my story, of course, but that doesn’t mean I want to sleep with you.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I raised both hands in the air. “Look who’s jumping to conclusions. I said nothing about sleeping together. I was only looking for a date. A good, honest night on the town with the quirky customer who orders the annoying coffee concoctions. But if you’re game for skipping all the small talk and getting-to-know-each-other shit, I can up the ante on your research and give you something really good to write about.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.” She rose from her seat and shimmied out of the booth.

  I followed her to the center of the store, came up behind her, hands on her shoulders, and spun her around to face me. “The jig is up, darlin’. Don’t play shy now.”

  “I’m not playing shy, Ezra.” She closed her eyes and I imagined she mentally counted to ten before she opened them again. Green irises shone before me with an innocent glimmer, but something shifted and I could sense her discomfort.

  I wanted to ease it away with a tender touch, but I wasn’t sure she’d be okay with that. She must have registered my restraint, however, because she searched for my hands, now nestled in my back pockets. Taking in a shallow breath and releasing it through her upturned nose, she admitted, “I am the most introverted person you’ll probably ever meet
. This whole situation has me on the verge of breaking out in hives. I’m sorry if I came off snobby or whatever; I wasn’t trying to. I usually stick to myself, my writing, my books.”

  Her honesty and vulnerability only made her that much more attractive. Jane’s reserve and the way she’d come clean—to me—was one of the biggest turn-ons I’d ever experienced. My heart raced for her—realizing how hard this must’ve been to admit aloud—and it galloped for me because, well, I really wanted to kiss her again. Jane seemed anything but introverted when we were kissing. I didn’t want to force her out of the comfort of her shell, though. I’d rather she left willingly—even if it was at a maddeningly slow pace.

  Besides, maybe she was misdiagnosing herself. I’d seen her in action. She wasn’t a total loner. That meant . . . just maybe . . . she could make room for me. “Jane, you may be a shrinking violet, but you’re not exactly a recluse. I know you have friends. I’ve seen you with that girl you meet on Fridays sometimes. Emmy, right?”

  “Wow, stalker much?” She couldn’t even insult me without blushing.

  I rolled my eyes. “No, I’m just perceptive and my job kind of requires me to write the names of my customers on their beverages, remember?”

  “True,” she conceded. “But even Emmy can tell you it took me quite a while for us to be friends. I’m . . . not good at cultivating relationships. I was kind of a geek all throughout my school years and I kept to myself. It’s easier being alone.”

  “It’s lonely being alone.”

  “That’s not always a bad thing,” she retorted with a tilt of her head.

  I knew what she was getting at. We lived in a neighborhood that was crammed full. People were squashed like sardines from Greenpoint to Bed Sty. There was no breathing room, let alone a place for your personal thoughts to ruminate without stepping on someone’s toes and becoming distracted. I happened to enjoy that kind of living—most of the time—but I could understand why someone might not. It did make me wonder, however, why Jane called this part of the great big world her home.

  Settling into a booth, I gestured for her to join me. When she did so without complaint or hesitation, I leaned back and asked, “What made you choose Williamsburg as your ‘you are here’? Don’t writers like to hole themselves up in quaint little cottages on acres of farmland while they work?”

  Jane smiled and chuckled inaudibly. “That might’ve worked for the Paul Sheldon character in Misery, but I’d rather be a Martin Scorsese or a . . . Larry David. When you immerse yourself in culture this way, there are so many places to pull inspiration from, you know? Besides, I’m challenging myself by stepping out of my comfort zone. And as you can see, it’s quite the challenge.”

  I couldn’t argue with her there. We were surrounded by so many possible characters on a daily basis, so much to learn from, gawk at, see, hear, and taste. Still, what was her comfort zone? I hoped she’d give me some insight. “Are you from around here or did you migrate like so many of the rest of us?”

  She shook her head and picked at the dark paint of her chipped manicure. “Brooklyn born and bred, actually. My grandparents lived here way before the gentrification. From what they told me, it was not the safest of places, but it was what they could afford, and luckily my mother’s upbringing did not suffer for it. When she went off to community college, she met my dad, who grew up in Sheepshead Bay. They wound up moving into my grandparents’ place when my grandfather passed. Grammy’s since moved into assisted living, and Mom and Dad—”

  “Are sitting on a veritable gold mine! Jane, do you know how much cash they could get for that place if they sold it?”

  “You don’t even know where I live, Ezra,” she huffed.

  “Doesn’t matter exactly where, everywhere here is prime real estate. We’re talking millions.”

  “I know. We get offers on the daily,” she said with a shrug.

  “I’m sure you do. I share a two by four shithole with an even shittier roommate and I still can’t seem to come up with my share of the rent at the end of the month. I cannot believe the cost of living around here.”

  “Says the man who works at the place that charges almost eight dollars for a large coffee.”

  “Says the chick who orders a drink that takes twenty minutes to make. I get paid by the hour, babe. Supply, demand, and all that shit.” I realized that made no sense, but I wanted to change the subject. I was no real estate tycoon, nor was I an economist. I was just a smitten barista, finally chatting up the girl of my fancy.

  Jane shook her head and giggled, her body less tense and her eyes more inquisitive. The rain was still coming down in heavy streams, but the thunder and lightning had subsided. It was way past closing time and I’d been here since the sun came up. I should have wanted nothing more than my warm, dry bed and a good night’s sleep, but I didn’t want my time with Jane to end.

  Maybe she felt the same or maybe she was simply being polite, because she asked, “Did you always want to be a barista?”

  “Uh, yes and no. Unlike you, I’m not from around here.”

  “I could tell. You don’t have the atrocious accent.”

  “I love the atrocious accent. In fact, can you throw a ‘Fugget about it’ at me?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.” I laughed. “Anyway, yeah, I grew up all over the place, an army brat. We moved around a lot, depending on where my dad was stationed. We spent a few years at Fort Hamilton before it was time to transfer again. Only, I decided I didn’t want to leave Brooklyn. I was finally of age and had a good group of friends. I didn’t have the drive to follow in my dad’s footsteps, and I wasn’t exactly the best student, but I wanted to make it on my own so I enrolled in online business classes while working at a mom and pop-type coffee shop. Long story short, this place had an opening with potential to move up the managerial chain. I had experience in the field, and I, like many of the other inhabitants around here, was fascinated by the hip and happening vibe. So I took the job, found a roomie, and the rest is history.”

  “You don’t miss the traveling? It must have been fun to have a different home every few years.”

  I let out a long puff of air and remembered the sadness of saying good-bye to my friends as quickly as I’d met them, or getting used to a new room, in a new town, with a new routine. “It was awful, to be honest.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t think of it that way,” she offered with genuine concern. “Are you here for good, or do you think you’ll ever uproot again?”

  It’s not as if I hadn’t thought about it. My parents and sisters currently lived in Virginia. I had nothing keeping me here other than my job and some close buddies, but there was something about Brooklyn that made me proud to call it home. And there was something about Jane that made me feel like confessing something I hadn’t admitted to anyone. “I’m really happy here. Rather than uproot, I think I’d like to plant some roots of my own here one day.”

  Jane nodded with a smile and then looked off to the front door again. Instead of allowing her thoughts to linger on the fact we were trapped in here involuntarily, she turned her head to face me again, her shoulders relaxed. “Well, between the goldmine I’m sitting on and your eagerness to plant some roots—”

  “We’re both here to stay, and I get to see your beautiful face for many more mornings to come.”

  My compliment brought a flush of crimson to her fair cheeks. She looked down at her hands without a peep. I enjoyed the silence between us; I sensed it was something comforting to her, too. But when the quiet darkness became too much for my vociferous nature, I stood from my side of the booth and slid in next to her.

  Jane turned her head toward me. She blinked. I blinked. Our eyes met and we both smiled. I leaned closer and she did not protest. Our mouths only inches apart, her sweet breath tickled the tip of my nose. I wanted to kiss her. Terribly. But I also wanted her to initiate. To succumb and validate that she had it for me as badly as I did for her. “Jane,” I whispered,
teasing her.

  “Ezra,” she moaned, her eyes shielded by lowered lids and those adorable specs.

  “I’ve done my own kind of research, too,” I admitted, pressing my forehead to hers. “But it’s not for any book, or screenplay. Just for me, Jane. I’ve watched you every day since you first came in here. Talk about intriguing . . .” I trailed off and groaned, nuzzling my scruff covered cheek against her soft one. “You think you can finally stop snubbing me and come out of that shell?”

  To think only this morning she was a mystery. She still was, but I was gradually unfolding so many interesting details about this girl, and I had this humdrum job at this run-of-the-mill coffeehouse to thank for it. Of all the coffee joints, in all the world . . .

  “Y-You don’t think I’m a weirdo?” She inspected my face, from the gelled tips of my shoulder-length lumbersexual hair to the bushy depths of my whiskers.

  I grinned and let a rude chuckle escape. “Oh, I totally think you’re a weirdo, but you’re an adorable weirdo. So, whadda ya say? Can you give me a shot . . . Greta?”

  In the middle of a dark room, locked away from the world, with the rain still coming down in intermittent sheets, we sat with our gazes locked in the cozy booth—two strangers with the possibility of becoming so much more.

  Jane giggled, rested her head against my shoulder and then peered up at me with a devilish grin. “I think I can arrange that. For research, of course.”

  “MARLEY, YOU’RE UP. Walk in!”

  I took one final swig of the tepid coffee I’d reheated at least five times since visiting Ezra—my favorite-but-currently-unavailable-barista—this afternoon, and rubbed my hands along the torn denim covering my thighs. Tossing the cup in the trash, I stood from my station, dramatically marked myself with the sign of the cross, and prayed. Anything but a rose, goddammit. Just not another rose, I beg of you, dear Lord. I caught Darren muffling a chuckle as he worked on a tramp stamp, straddling the thirty-something chick who occupied his chair.