by Radclyffe
It had been a coworker, Tim—the shift supervisor no less—who had dared her to do it. He insisted after Hope had been working there only a month, that he was tired of listening to Hope “blather on” about Simone—her sultry voice, radioactive smile, warm eyes and what Hope had deemed “an ass so magical that David Copperfield might climb out of it at any moment.”
“Christ, Hope,” Tim whined as he dumped the house blend into a coffeemaker and prepared for the shop to open. “Why don’t you do everyone a favor and just hit on her already?”
“Because, boss,” she hissed as she busily stacked cups, “I’m not supposed to come on to the customers. Besides, what if she’s straight? And not just regular-straight, but like…crazy, circus-freak straight?”
Tim scowled. “What the hell is ‘circus-freak straight’?”
“You know, where people pay money to slip into a tent and stare at the woman who despises lesbians. As fodder for the crowds, they occasionally show her a picture of a boob and she curses them to hell before she vomits.”
“You think if she knows that you have the hots for her and her magical ass, that might taint her chai latte?” he asked, chuckling.
Hope sighed. “She doesn’t drink chai. Besides, I’ll settle for just hearing her raspy voice call me ‘babe’…just once.”
“Seriously?” Tim was standing and blinking at her incredulously.
“Dude, have you not looked at her? If she purred something like that at me, I might just come in my pants.”
His expression changed and became mischievous. “Well, that’s an easy enough theory to test.”
“What do you mean?” Hope asked suspiciously.
He disappeared for a moment into the back room, before reappearing with a basic, thirty-dollar label maker. He typed something on its tiny keyboard, tore off the gray strip that emerged from the side, and peeled off its adhesive backing. Tim smirked as he stuck the label on Hope’s name tag, effectively obscuring her name. It now read BABE.
“You’re an ass, Tim.”
When Hope reached to remove the label, Tim lightly slapped her hand away. “Ah-ah-ah. She’ll be in sometime this morning, right?”
“Right.”
“So let’s see if we can make your dream come true,” he said. “If nothing else, it’s a hell of an icebreaker, right?”
“Not to mention a great way to get a free slap,” Hope added.
Tim appeared smug. “Look, I’ll give you complete permission to hit on this chick. In fact, I’ll put money on it.”
Hope’s left eyebrow rose. “What kind of money?”
“Twenty bucks says you won’t openly flirt with this girl.”
She considered this for a moment. “You’re on, brother.”
“And I’ll double down if you flash her a tit.”
As she had every morning the preceding four weeks, Simone entered the coffee shop between 7:35 and 7:45—right in the middle of the morning rush. When Hope spied her in line, she gave Tim the agreed-upon signal—she began to sing Dionne Warwick’s hit “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?” at the top of her lungs.
He jerked his head around from the espresso machine, squinted at the line and grabbed Hope by the waist. “Let’s switch.”
Hope nodded and went off to start making the coffee orders, leaving the cash register to Tim.
Had she not been cranking out the cappuccinos as fast as her fingers could manage, Hope would have found the time to wonder exactly how she was going to flirt with Simone. Instead, before she knew it, she held an empty paper cup with the name SIMONE written on it.
She took a deep breath and began crafting the half-caf caramel wonder that she knew would touch Simone’s lips. She made sure the foam was perfect, then turned, flashing the most charming smile she could muster. “Simone, your coffee is ready,” she murmured breathily.
Simone looked as beautiful as she ever had, her auburn hair cascading over her shoulders and her navy-blue business suit hugging her plentiful curves in all the right places. She returned Hope’s smile as she advanced to the counter, ready to pick up her frothy beverage, and the sight of her approach caused some kind of cranial misfire in Hope’s cerebrum.
“Uh…”
Hope suddenly recalled that she was obligated to flirt with this woman. They had, after all, put money on it. She looked to Tim who was somehow watching her while he took people’s orders at the same time. She glanced down and realized that she had yet to hand over the java, and Simone just stood across from her, waiting for it to be offered.
“I’m sorry,” Hope finally said. “You’re just so beautiful, I completely forgot what I was doing.”
Hope was waiting for her horrible prophecy to be fulfilled, but Simone did not recoil. She didn’t even appear to be thrown off kilter by the comment. Instead, she studied Hope for a long moment, before she reached out and took the cup. “Thanks very much.” Simone’s eyes dropped to Hope’s name tag. “Babe.”
Had Hope wanted to conceal her delight, she was neither emotionally or physically equipped at that moment to do so. Her grin reached no doubt from ear to ear.
“Is that your real name?” Simone asked, as Hope felt her pulse begin to race.
“No, but it sure was nice hearing you say it.”
Simone seemed more than simply flattered as she tasted the coffee, never once breaking eye contact with Hope. “Mmm. Well, I can’t wait to see what your name will be tomorrow.”
“Have a great day, Simone.”
“You too, Babe.”
Hope watched Simone saunter out the door and head down the sidewalk, before Hope once again regained her wits. She suddenly noticed the other customers who were waiting for their drinks—now all staring at her as though she had just pulled down her pants and smacked her ass for them. “Oh,” she said self-consciously.
A haughty patron crinkled his nose and crossed his arms defensively. “You think you can get it back in your pants long enough to make my soy latte, honey?”
“Sorry,” Hope replied, her elongation of the first consonant emitting an awkward whistle.
Tim leaned in and whispered in Hope’s ear. “I’ll give you the twenty, though I’m disappointed there was no tit.”
“Well, there’s always tomorrow.”
Since that day, every morning Monday through Friday (barring any federal holidays, of course) Simone came into the coffee shop, placed her standard order and made it a point to have some exchange with Hope—sometimes brief, but always saucy. Hope found it frustrating that Simone never came in at a time when they weren’t absolutely slammed, though part of her thought it might have been intentional.
Certainly the notion of a straight woman flirting with a lesbian was not a new one for Hope. And that situation might be made even safer when the lesbian only had about forty seconds to speak before a hostile caffeine addict shouted at her to hurry up and get her “ass in gear.”
The seductive parlaying between them went back and forth for seven months, and while Hope was sane enough to recognize that she had irrationally developed a fascination with Simone—a very strong crush perhaps—their playful flirting made her feel so good that she just went with it, trying to push the boundary infinitesimally with each passing encounter.
One misty spring morning, the rush of customers was slower than most days.
“Here you go,” Hope said, holding the cup out so that Simone had to take it from her, causing their fingers to brush incidentally. “Can I assume you’re wearing that low-cut blouse for my benefit?”
Simone smiled seductively as she took the coffee. “Of course. And are you wearing anything for my benefit?”
“You can’t tell from that side of the counter, but I’m not wearing pants.”
Hope found Simone’s laughter almost musical. “Well, that leaves me a lot to think about over the course of my workday.”
“Good. Why should I be the only one horribly distracted all day?” Hope asked before leaning in toward Simone and crooking her
index finger to draw her closer. “I put some shaved chocolate on the top for you. Don’t tell anyone,” she whispered.
“You spoil me.”
“I’d like to,” Hope replied softly.
A tiny bit of foam had drizzled down the side the cup, which Simone seductively licked before sucking the remnants off the tip of her finger. “Well, chocolate is a very good start…and so very versatile.”
Hope swallowed loudly. “Did I already mention that I find you immensely distracting?”
Simone’s smile was terrifically naughty. “Now that you mention it, I believe you did. See you later, Hope.”
Hope watched her sashay out the door—her vision riveted to Simone’s tight tweed pencil skirt.
“Good god almighty,” she exhaled reverently.
As Hope wiped down the inside of the coffee shop windows later that afternoon, she was surprised to see Simone shuffling down the sidewalk in her direction, holding an open cardboard box full of office supplies. She was visibly upset, and Hope had a sudden sinking feeling.
“Hey, Simone,” Hope called, holding the door open. “C’mere.”
Simone stopped and seemed to ponder the request.
“C’mon in,” Hope insisted. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
As Simone walked into the coffee shop, her sassy confidence from earlier that morning was gone, replaced by a dispirited dejection.
“Something tells me you’re not having a good day,” Hope said, taking the box out of Simone’s arms and setting it on a table in the corner window. “Layoff?”
Simone sniffed. “They’re calling it a ‘strategic workforce reduction.’”
“Wow, and what are you calling it?”
“Anal rape,” Simone replied bitterly.
Hope winced. “Ouch! I’m sorry, honey. Look, have a seat here. I’ll be right back.” She slipped behind the counter and whipped up a frozen concoction in a blender before pouring it into two small cups and returning to join Simone at the table. “Try this. It’s my own creation.”
Simone stared at the cup and sighed. “You know, I saw it coming…for months, but I was trying to stay hopeful. I thought I was just being paranoid. I’m such an idiot.”
“Completely untrue. So how many got cut?”
“Eleven of us.” Simone tasted the frozen drink and her expression softened slightly. “This is really good. What is this?”
“Something I mix up for myself when I need a little boost. I call it the panacea. It brightens the spirit, clears the mind and cures both consumption and dropsy.”
“It’s so velvety and thick. What’s in it that makes it so good?” Simone asked, taking another big sip.
“Ah, that’s either the opium or the unicorn tears.” When Simone glanced up at Hope briefly with only subtle amusement in her eyes, Hope decided to try another tack. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. I think I might be in shock.”
“Are you getting any severance?” Hope asked, crossing her legs and studying Simone’s face.
“Four weeks worth.”
Hope cleared her throat awkwardly. “So, do you have some astoundingly lucky significant other waiting for you at home who can take up the financial slack while you look for another job?”
“If that’s your way of asking me if I have a girlfriend, no. I’m single.”
Hope was slightly heartened by Simone’s use of the word “girlfriend,” but out of sympathy tried not to look gleeful. “What about a roommate? Friends? Family?”
“I moved to the city for this job, so the only friends I’ve made in the nine months that I’ve lived here are the ones at the office who just watched me pack my shit into this box and get walked out of the building.” She combed her fingers nervously through her hair.
Simone’s plight was breaking Hope’s heart. In the months that they had been friendly, she had never gleaned a tenth of this personal information. “So what are you going to do now?”
“I have no fucking clue. I suppose I could start drinking heavily.” Simone looked at her watch. “If I get started now I could be vomiting before dinner.”
“It’s good to have goals, I suppose,” Hope said weakly. “You just need to take a little time to collect yourself and then get right back out there into the job market…which I know sounds totally shitty.”
“Only because it is shitty, Hope. Maybe this is the city telling me to quit while I’m behind. I’ve been here the better part of a year, and I don’t have anything to show for it—not a goddamn thing.”
“Or, at the risk of sounding like a cheerleader on ecstasy, I’d say you could view this as just a temporary setback—one of life’s curveballs. It’s not like you’re unemployable. It’s the economy, not you. You can bounce back from this.”
Simone was inconsolable. “I should just head home and start packing—just start accepting that I’m a failure.”
“Hmm, I have a better idea. How about instead of pulling out that dog-eared copy of The Bell Jar so you can scrawl suicidal notes in the margins, you go out with me tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Simone said softly. “I can’t imagine being good company right now.”
“Hang on, before you totally reject me, hear me out. I understand that you’re clearly not in a very social mood, but this really is more about you not having to go home and lie on your sofa in the fetal position while you suck melted Häagen-Dazs through a straw.”
“But I’ll be a total drag,” Simone countered, slurping up more of her drink.
“And I get that. I’m not asking you out so you can entertain me. There’s no pressure at all. I’ll treat you to a happy, fluffy movie.”
Simone shook her head adamantly. “No way. I’m not having you pay my way for anything. I’ll be a financial burden to the state soon enough. I don’t need to branch out and be a burden to other people too.”
Hope was duly chastised. “Fair enough. I won’t spend a dime on you, okay? You can just come over to my place and I’ll make you dinner. We can just hang out.”
Simone did not seem sold on the idea. “I don’t know.”
“So The Bell Jar and the Häagen-Dazs still sound better than time with me? Have I mentioned that I cook for a living?”
Simone looked around the empty coffee shop. “I thought this was what you did for a living.”
“This is my day job,” Hope explained. “Four nights a week I’m a line cook at Le Chevalier.”
“Wow. That’s impressive. And somehow I apparently don’t even do one thing well.”
Hope picked up the paper towel she had been using to wipe down the windows and tossed it on the floor. “Sorry, there’s a flag on the play—illegal self-pity.”
Simone smiled. “What’s the penalty?”
“Loss of down, and you have to let me help you feel better. Come on, Simone. Why not try to salvage the rest of what’s started out to be such a shitty day?”
“Okay,” Simone relented.
Hope was unable to hide her elation. “Do you live near here?”
Simone nodded.
“Well, luckily for you I just live a couple blocks away. So here.” Hope scrawled her address on a clean paper towel and pushed it across the table to her. “Come on over anytime after four. We can eat around seven, if that’s okay.”
“You forgot your phone number,” Simone said, sliding it back over to Hope.
“I wasn’t born yesterday. If you have my number, there’s a chance that at ten of seven I’ll get a call from you saying that you’ve changed your mind. Then I’m stuck with six gallons of uneaten Beanie Weenie.”
“Um…”
“In my defense, my Beanie Weenie kicks ass,” Hope said with a grin. “Do you have any dietary concerns I need to know about? Sugar? Gluten? Red meat?”
“I do it all.”
Hope blinked. “You know, when I imagined you saying that to me it was a completely different scenario, but somehow I still found that exceptionally hot.”
A flash of
the flirty Simone emerged, and she winked before finishing off her drink and setting the empty cup on the table. “Okay then, I’ll see you tonight.” She took Hope’s address and dropped it into her cardboard box. “Should I bring anything?”
“Do you drink wine?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re in charge of the wine. Bring whatever you like.”
“Okay,” Simone said, standing and throwing away her trash. “Thanks, Hope,” she added softly as she backed into the door and slipped back out into the street.
Hope thought that she had never met anyone more adorable.
Simone couldn’t believe she was doing this. Twenty-four hours ago she had been gainfully employed and her life had been structured and certain. Now she was jobless and on her way to a date with someone who, with her bad luck, was perhaps a lunatic barista.
She climbed the flight of stairs in Hope’s apartment building, clutching the paper bag that shrouded her wine bottle, as though it were a cudgel. With every few steps she vacillated between acknowledging that she found Hope very attractive, coupled with her thankfulness to have a social diversion to keep her mind off losing her job, and the unsettling fear that she really didn’t know this woman at all. What if she had sixty-three cats? Or an ex who arrived in the middle of their meal, angrily wielding a cleaver in one hand and a dildo in the other?
Simone sighed. This was why she had been single for so long. After a couple of twisted, contentious relationships in the small town she used to call home, she now tended to buy into every lesbian stereotype there ever was and thereby talked herself right back into a life of eating alone and involuntary celibacy.
She thought again about why she was so drawn to Hope. She always seemed to be in an upbeat mood, and as corny as that seemed, Simone really liked that—it made facing her mornings in corporate purgatory more bearable. She also appreciated the style Hope possessed. She clearly had an affinity for bold colors and silver jewelry, and many times Simone had admiringly watched Hope’s strong, capable-looking hands as she made coffee or counted back change. Hope was witty, smart and sexy—that’s just all there was to it.