Although the city was so brightly lit that it could never be considered dark, Eli still somehow found the shadowy areas.
A duffle bag and a rejection letter from a once-interested college were the things he had along when he stepped off the bus. Wet concrete and burnt sugar were the city's odors. The wind that swept through the deserted streets brought along pieces of newspapers which hit his feet as if they were trying to say something in a whisper. Little by little, he traced the flickering streetlamps until he reached the noise of traffic, now more like a faint hum, and the trees had started to form in the dark like people observing him. That was just the moment he laid eyes on it.
Red Velvet.
A sign in gold cursive was above a fogged window, its glow spreading across the cracked pavement like a bloodied sidewalk. He could see faintly the sparkle of red curtains and the figure of a person moving behind the cash register. The building was a tiny one, its appearance the droopy one of a tired person in the middle of two neglected shops — one closed and the other had been erased of its name. It appeared to be the sole thing, which was, still breathing in the street.
As Eli stepped inside, the bell above the door announced his arrival with a chime. He was instantly met by the comfort of the place and the fragrance of cinnamon and coffee roasted which was enveloping him like a hug and penetrating slowly to his very essence. The walls painted deep maroon were matching the wallpaper of roses that had lost almost all their color. A single record was playing, very softly, at the corner, crackling away underneath the sound of the rain drumming on the glass of the windows.
The sound of a soft voice came from behind the counter.
"Welcome, dear. You look like you need something warm."
The person speaking was a petite one — perhaps five and a half feet tall — with deep white hair that hung freely around their neck and upper back. The apron they were wearing was clean and tied neatly at the waist, and the eyes that looked at Eli were a light and almost colorless shade of gray. It was hard for Eli to guess their age. They looked like they were in their mid-twenties at the most, but there was something in their bearing that felt older — one of being, patient and tamed.
"You're open late," said Eli, putting his duffel bag down next to a stool.
"We never shut our doors," they answered. "Coffee is free of timetables, isn't it?"
Their laughter cheered up Eli and he unconsciously opened himself to them — a familiar and undeserving comfort like reliving a moment. He chose a plain thing to drink, nevertheless, he hardly recalled what he had uttered. The barista looked like a dreamer, dancing through dreams, implicitly, and quietly; the faintest hum was heard as they operated the espresso machine.
When they gave the mug to him, their fingers touched his. Cold. He raised his eyes, surprised, but they had already started to smile again.
"First cup is complimentary," they assured. "Every new face comes with sweetness."
The coffee was richer in color than he had thought — nearly black, covered with a deep red lustre at the surface. He sipped. It was bitter, but silky. Sweet in the aftertaste, like chocolate too near the fire.
"This is fantastic," he said almost inaudibly.
"Houseblend," they replied. "I named it Red Velvet."
They pronounced the name as a thing of reverence.
Eli remained there even when the café was closed, gazing into the cup, not exactly understanding his reluctance to go. The coffee shop was deserted save for the faint humming of the refrigerator in the storage room and the barista — Flint, that was their name — who was washing mugs behind the counter. Their being was such that they occupied the whole place without making it feel as if it were more alive. Almost as if the café was hoping for something or someone.
"Have you just moved in?" asked Flint.
"Yeah. I was actually supposed to arrive later today."
"Then you are still in the place you abandoned. That's good. The city consumes too quickly."
The words belonged to the moment. Eli laughed, but it was a stilted laugh.
"Such a barista you are, poetic."
"Coffee is poetry," said Flint gently. "The only difference is, we know how to drink it before it turns cold."
"You are a poet, considering your profession."
"Flint replied, almost in a whisper: "Coffee is poetry, it is just the people who learn to drink it before it gets cold."
The offer of a job was made to him before the dialogue ended. Just like that, no papers, no interviews.
"I could benefit from having a person in the daytime," they told the employee. "Though it is calm, the old-time clients like new faces."
"Still, you can't be sure I know how to make coffee."
Flint stated, "You seem like a person who is in need of a place to stay." "And that is sufficient."
Thus Eli, who had not been wanted anywhere for quite a while, consented.
By the time he went back into the rain, all the streets were silent. The forest on the other side of the road stood is black, silent forms against a red sky. He thought he might have seen something in the trees; a thin, light figure, perhaps a ghost, looking. But it vanished when he blinked.
The faint glow of the golden letters of Red Velvet was hardly visible in the mist behind him, like an ember that won't die.
Eli with the coffee aftertaste still lingering in his mouth walked back home — sweet, heavy, and unforgettable.