The heady aroma of roasted beans swirls with the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine, a mechanical heart pulsing life into another cog of the relentless drudgery of the city's ever-hungry maw, the corporate machine. It's rush hour, a time when the desperate, in their drab, utilitarian uniforms, reach for caffeine, their melancholic faces obscured by the omnipresent glow of handheld screens.
The Ministry of Mindnumbing Tasks dispatches its latest batch of drones with a cacophony of coughs and the frantic tap-tap-tap of identical briefcases against cold, gray tiles. The robotic line of "Next Please! Step to the left," receives their daily ration in Ministry-approved containers, each one a small rebellion against the life Father wants for me at Onyx Imports. I carefully choreograph a performance, a flourish of latte art here, a sprinkling of cinnamon dust there, a warm smile and a friendly greeting sprinkled on top. My eyes scan the queue, taking orders and mentally queuing them up in my brain.
It's been a week since Ojiichan's funeral. A week since the lie was buried with him. The exhaustion sits heavy on my bones, made worse by Father's latest lecture about "practical choices" and "family responsibility." As if working for the company would somehow honor Ojiichan's memory. As if hiding who I am—my own path, my unyielding spirit—would make him proud.
Steam tendrils dance upward kissing my face as I craft three more lattes, milky rosettes blooming in the foam. Each cup is a small act of defiance, every Ministry-approved ration container, a momentary respite for the dreary, a fragrant escape that holds the promise of a semblance of cheer. My beauty in the face of Father's gray dull world.
The familiar clink of ceramic on saucer pulled my attention from the worker ants. The regulars were the lifeblood of this place.
Sarah, the writer, hunches over a laptop, the faint scent of vanilla swirling around her like a comforting fog. The dark fuel of a large Americano for Jim, the construction worker, sits beside her well-worn notebook. A shared smile passes between them, a silent conversation formed over countless mornings spent in this caffeinated oasis amidst the city's chaos.
In the far corner, a man in a suit too sharp for this hour sat perfectly still, his attention captured by a tablet. An island of corporate calm in the morning chaos, his presence somehow making The Ministry even more oppressive.
I caught the eye of Jim and a shared smile passed between us. "Uh oh, ten minutes before Jim heads out," I muttered, filling a to-go cup without him asking. The small kindness earned me a glowing smile.
An elderly gentleman, Donald, sits by the window with a worn copy of the day's newspaper propped against his mug. A group of college students huddle over a single mug, their animated discussion punctuated by bursts of laughter and the frantic scribbling of notes. A frazzled mother leans into her not-so-well-hidden book of erotic smut, a temporary escape from the only insanity worse than the city of drones... a quartet of manic, albeit beautiful, children in a much too small apartment.
Though their interactions are brief, a bond of familiarity has grown with our little family of caffeine junkies.
Beneath the cozy ambiance, a jitter in my stomach grew, a tremor that had nothing to do with caffeine.
Jim waved goodbye and stepped toward the street, his eyes glued to his phone. A flash of red. The delivery truck rounded the corner fast—too fast. He stepped into the crosswalk without looking up.
"No!" The word was a strangled gasp. I reached across the counter, a useless, desperate gesture.
The squeal of the truck's brakes was a physical blow. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the sickening thud.
But it never came.
There was only a sudden, hollow silence. When I opened my eyes, Jim was standing on the other side of the street, completely oblivious. The cup I'd been holding lay shattered on the floor, coffee spreading across the tiles like spilled blood.
"I'm sorry," I managed, my voice thin. I grabbed a towel and knelt behind the counter, my breath coming in ragged gasps. "I need air," I whispered, fleeing from behind the counter, my composure finally gone.
I turned the corner and froze. Bathed in the warm glow of the window sat a vision of pure sunshine. Emily. Golden light haloed her caramel hair, and her hazel eyes sparkled, focused on the notebook in her lap. My heart did its familiar, painful flutter. Beautiful. Untouchable.
She looked up, a half-smile gracing her lips. "Morning, sunshine." Then her smile faltered, her gaze taking in the towel and my pale face. "You okay?"
A whirlwind of emotions coursed through me. I pushed it down, hiding behind our usual performance. I winked with more passion than I meant, clutching my chest in mock agony. "Oh, to love someone so deeply, so wholly, yet to find oneself standing solitary in the garden of affection! It's a sonnet etched in the stars, where longing becomes the silent symphony of the soul.
Emily stared, her perfectly full lips parted for a heartbeat before she dissolved into laughter. "Wow, Kai, dramatic much? You're my personal poet now."
I shrugged innocently, the sound of her laughter a temporary balm. "Yeats? Maybe W. H. Auden? I can never remember." Neither of them, my soul screamed. Just me. Don't mind me, Em.
Her laughter was so genuine it brought tears to her eyes, and for a moment, I could almost believe everything was normal. I buried my desires, content to bask in her warmth.
"Oh God, I have to pee like right now," I announced, jumping up.
"Wait up, I need to go too," she said, a fresh wave of laughter spilling from her.
The creaky door of the coffee shop bathroom groaned open, revealing the familiar postage-stamp sized space. I edge in first, the cool, slightly damp tile floor sending a shiver up my spine. The porcelain of the toilet seat was cold against my clothed thighs as I lowered myself, leaving barely enough room to breathe, let alone for Emily to join me. I waited, holding my breath slightly, for her to follow.
She leans against the sink, her laughter fading into a soft, concerned smile.
"Are you okay, really?" she asks, her voice low and serious. "What just happened out there? You looked like you saw a ghost."
I turn on the faucet, pretending to wash my hands as a way to avoid her gaze. "Nothing. Just… tired. I haven't been sleeping much."
"Kai." Her voice is firm now, a gentle but unyielding demand for the truth. "You looked like you were about to have a panic attack. This isn't about being tired."
Her hip bumped mine, a familiar, comfortable contact that sent a low, coiling heat through my gut.. I pretend not to notice how the contact lingered—how her warmth seeped through my jeans as she perched on the sink, our reflections overlapping in the fogged mirror.
"It was… for a second, I thought I saw the truck hit him," I admitted, the words spilling out. "I felt it."
Emily's brow furrowed.
With a sigh, I stood, the limited space forcing me to angle my body and to lean slightly on Emily for balance. She reached for my hand. Her touch was meant to be grounding, but all I could feel was the warmth of her palm, the slight pressure of her fingers.
I fumbled with my zipper, my fingers clumsy as I pushed my jeans and panties down. "It was nothing, Em. Just tired." The toilet paper roll squeaked as I tore a sheet, the sound obscenely loud. When I glanced up, our eyes collided in the glass. I saw her gaze flicker downwards for a split second, a quick, darting glance at my exposed lap before snapping back up to my face.
A jolt, sharp and electric, shot through me. She's looking.
"You're staring," I whispered, the accusation a breathy, trembling thing.
Emily's cheeks flushed a perfect rosewater pink. "Shut up, I am not." But the blush deepened, a truth my desperate mind seized upon. "I'm worried, Kai. You're bottling everything up about Ojiichan. It's not healthy."
I sigh, the sound heavy with everything I've been holding inside. "It was nothing, Em. Just a weird moment."
"Weird how?" she pushes gently.
Her hazel eyes filled with so much compassion. It's too much. The walls I've built up since the funeral was starting to crumb. "It was… for a second, I thought I saw something happen. The truck hitting... I felt it, at least I thought, I did."
Emily's brow furrows, but she doesn't pull away. She reaches for my hand, her touch grounding and warm. "Kai, that's not a weird moment."
Her words were kind, her tone a gentle caress, but my brain filtered them through a haze of burgeoning heat. She was worried. She was looking. The two facts tangled together, creating a dangerous new logic in the furnace of my mind. The concern was a cover for curiosity. The worry is a justification to look.
A low, coiling heat began to build deep in my gut. All it would take is one word, Em, I thought, a frantic prayer in my head. Just say one word and I will give all of me to you, right here on this cold tile floor. In response to my own thought, my knees parted another inch, a silent, shameless invitation offered to her reflection.
"I know." My voice breaks on the word. "It's been a week, and all I can think about is Ojiichan's death." The words spilled out, a dam finally breaking.
Emily's hand tightens on mine, her eyes wide. But she kept talking about my grief, her hazel eyes full of a pure, platonic concern that was starting to feel like a physical torment.
I was getting wetter by the second, and the thought of her noticing sent a fresh wave of panic through me. I wiped myself carefully, deliberately, then turned to the sink, my back to her. "I'm fine, really," I said, my voice sounding thin. "How's the new piece coming along at the studio?" changing the subject, desperate for a new reality.
I straightened up, my thighs trembling slightly. I caught a glimpse of Emily in the mirror again. The red in her perfect cheeks slightly darkened. For an imperceptible moment, her eyes locked with mine… something unreadable. Intrigue? Confusion? Desire?
Emily's reflection in the mirror faltered for a fraction of a second, she shrugged, a hint of real frustration tightening the corners of her mouth. "Honestly, not great. It's a chunky piece of barf. I've hit a slump with it."
I gripped the cool porcelain edge of the sink. My eyes were traitors, fixed on her reflection as she worked her jeans down. I couldn't see everything, just tantalizing glimpses. A sliver of her thigh, the soft, pale skin a contrast to the faded blue denim pooled at her ankles. My mouth went dry. As she shifted, I saw the faint pink line the seam of her jeans had pressed into her skin, a delicate, private map. Now the roles were reversed. I am the observer.
"Yeah, I get ya," I managed, my voice softer than I intended. The air was getting thick, hard to breathe. "But you'll work through it. You always do." I continued, forcing the words out, trying to sound like the friend I was supposed to be.
My mind wasn't on her art; it was on the forbidden geography of her body, the shallow hollow at the top of her thigh. My imagination was a runaway train, filling in the blanks, painting a picture so vivid it made my head spin.
"Thanks, Kai. I hope you're right." She didn't meet my direct gaze, focusing instead on her own reflection, tracing a finger unconsciously along the edge of the sink in front of her. "You've always been my best hype woman, but you know"
Em's art is an extension of her emotions. Through her art, she expresses her vulnerability, her fears, and her desires. It is a way for her to process her experiences and to make sense of the world around her.
I nudged her playfully with my elbow, the small contact sending another unwanted thrill through me. "You hardly stepped outside the apartment in, what, two weeks?" I hesitated, then blurted out, "Sun deprivation is a real thing, you know! Two years of Netflix binges and ramen delivered at 3 a.m. Don't you think it's time to, you know, venture out into the real world again?"
Emily scoffs playfully, "Sunshine is overrated. Besides, my muse thrives in quiet solitude."
My body was a live wire. Every nerve ending screamed with a terrifying, exquisite sensitivity. If she so much as brushed against me by accident, I knew I would come apart. My mind was just a frantic loop of please, please, show me more.
Emily fell silent, She took a slow breath. "Maybe," she finally admitted, her voice barely audible. "A change of scenery wouldn't hurt." She tore off a few squares for herself and leaned to wipe herself. I stole another peek through the mirror, mildly jealous of the toilet tissue.
She stood up.
The world seemed to wobble. The space was too small, a fact I was suddenly, intensely grateful for. As she rose, her hip bumped solidly into my side. The contact was a lightning strike, a shock that traveled from my hip straight to my core. She stumbled forward just a bit, catching her balance on the sink, and in that one, heart-stopping second, the waistband of her jeans dipped.
The gentle slope of her lower back, the shadowed cleft at the top of her ass, the impossibly soft-looking skin there. It broke me. The simmering heat in my gut erupted into an inferno. Every rational thought—friendship, love, respect—was incinerated by a single, primal, possessive need that clawed its way out from the depths of my grief and loneliness. A wordless roar filled my head.
Before my conscious mind could scream a veto, my body acted on impulse. It wasn't a choice. It was an inevitability, a dam of unbearable pressure giving way. My hand moved, a slight, deliberate nudge to her lower back, disguised as a stumble of my own.
She righted herself, pulling up her jeans with a confused, startled frown.
Reached past me to turn on the faucet, and the tips of her fingers brushed against my breast through my shirt. Meeting her gaze in the mirror again, my breath hitched in my throat. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, a flicker of surprise giving way to warmth.
She's mere inches away, the air in the cramped bathroom felt thick, heavy with unspoken words and a tension that vibrated between us. The space between us seemed to shrink with each passing second, the silence humming.
We should… get back," she said finally, her voice a little shaky. She washed her hands without another word and was gone, the click of the latch as final and absolute as a cell door slamming shut.
I remained frozen, my hands gripping the sink, staring at my reflection. At the flushed cheeks, the dilated pupils, the face of a girl who had just betrayed he most sacred thing in her world, all for a single, stolen, shameful moment.
The monster wasn't a ghost or a hallucination.
It was me.