Kinda Complicated

Coffee & Dummies

It's been a week since the party. Ash hasn't thought much about it — or at least, that's what he tells himself. He remembers the guy with the crooked bow tie, the one who almost slipped into his arms in the rain, but he files it away as just another strange night.

Then, one afternoon, he steps into his usual café. He doesn't expect to see him again, not here, hunched over a table too small for his scattered books and coffee cup. Mikey is frowning at his screen, furiously backspacing, oblivious to the steady migration of biscotti crumbs toward the hinge of his laptop. His left foot bounces. Ash watches him for a minute, chin hooked over the collar of his hoodie, invisible in the blur of people coming in and out.

The spell lasts until Mikey glances up, startled, mouth frozen in a mid-sip around the lid of his cup. There’s a moment where neither says anything; Ash raises his fingers in the tiniest wave, just enough to register, and Mikey smiles like he’s been caught jaywalking and is a little flattered by it.

Ash moves to the counter, orders a coffee he won’t drink, watches Mikey from the periphery. He could leave. It would be easy. But curiosity is a ratchet—once it’s cranked, it only wants more leverage.

When Ash turns around, Mikey is already standing, gathering his palace of loose handouts and printouts, stuffing them into a corduroy tote. He nods toward the open seat at his table, unsure if it’s an ask or a challenge. Ash hesitates, then lets his body go first, a reflex from living more in his limbs than his plans.

''Hey,'' Mikey says, as Ash slides in opposite. The greeting is softer than rain, as if they’re resuming a conversation paused mid-sentence.

''Hey,'' Ash echoes, unzipping his hoodie even though the café isn’t warm. He glances down at Mikey’s fortress of paper, at fortress-builder’s hands with ink stains—same runny blue as before, maybe from the same traitorous pen.

Mikey tracks Ash’s gaze, then gathers his papers into a more orderly heap. He seems mortified by his own mess, but not enough to apologize for it. ''Research binge,'' he says. ''Had to get out of the house. My roommate started stress-cooking again, and last time she set off the smoke detector. We haven’t recovered.'' Mikey makes a face, but his eyes shine like he would do anything to avoid being home alone with himself.

Ash gets that. He drums his fingers on the tabletop, feeling the pulse through the warped veneer. ''How’s the paper going?''

Mikey groans. ''Hypothetically, awful. Actually, also awful.'' He shrugs, then dares a glance at Ash. ''But I keep coming back to it, which is new.''

Ash picks up a slip of paper from the table, scans the highlighted lines. ''’The ghosts of commerce linger in the bones of failed architecture,’'' he reads aloud. ''Dramatic.''

Mikey laughs, but it’s tight at the edges. ''You should see the footnotes. That’s where the real goth stuff is.''

Their eyes meet for a second too long, then both look away. The café hums with the soft violence of espresso machines, the steady timber of a street busker outside, the promise of afternoon rain brewing behind the glass. Ash’s coffee arrives, and he realizes he’s been staring at the steam rising off Mikey’s cup more than anything else. He stirs it, though he drinks it black, looking for something to correct his focus.

The awkwardness between them is a waiting animal; neither wants to spook it. Mikey fidgets, then slides one of his many handouts across the table, teasing, “You critique pawned items. Think you can handle abandoned scholarship?”

Ash smirks, scanning the page, red pen corrections already bleeding through from the other side. ''Needs fewer adverbs and more heists.''

Mikey’s grin is quick, pleased. ''I’ll add a section on mall security. I bet you have thoughts.''

''Only that most alarms are there to make you feel watched, not safe,'' Ash says, and the way Mikey’s eyebrows lift, impressed by him. ''You really know how to romance a mall cop.''

''Only if I want to get banned,'' Ash deadpans, but Mikey hears the invitation in it, and the next smile is shared, measured out in careful increments, like the way strangers move around each other in a too-small kitchen.

They talk. About the paper, about Mikey's roommate, about how rain seems to find their company wherever they go. Every time it gets quiet, something in the silence draws them a little closer, like the world is a rubber band, and they're the only weights at either end. Ash keeps pretending he's not noticing the way Mikey knots his fingers, or the way his gaze flicks up and away like he’s embarrassed by how much he wants to be watched.

There’s a lull in the café; the barista has retreated to the back, leaving the two of them framed in the wet glass, rain painting all the city’s colors onto the table between their cups. Ash taps the coffee mug, then leans in, voice pitched low.

''You free later?''

Mikey doesn’t answer at first.

He twists the lid on his cup, then off, then back on again, like a puzzle that resists solution. ''Uh. I’m supposed to go to my sister’s boyfriend’s housewarming. She says it’s urgent I learn the difference between a charcuterie board and ‘just putting ham on a plate.’'' He glances up, sheepish. ''But I could maybe be late?''

Ash nods, solemnly as a priest. ''I hear those take hours to arrange.''

Mikey huffs a laugh, sets his coffee down just long enough for his hands to find each other in his lap, thumbs wrestling. ''You have a shift?'' he asks.

''Not till one. Some guy’s pawning a ventriloquist dummy at midnight. I promised my boss I’d supervise.''

''Is that a normal thing?'' Mikey’s eyes are wide, the horror and interest perfectly balanced.

Ash shrugs. ''Normal as I get.''

There’s a pause, and Ash realizes he’s run out of banter. He tries sipping his coffee, but it tastes like cardboard and regret. Mikey is chewing the inside of his cheek, like maybe there’s something he wants to say but the shape of it makes his mouth hurt.

''You ever…'' Mikey starts, then aborts, tongue stuck on the roof of his mouth. ''Never mind.''

Ash sets down his cup, angles his chin, waiting. ''You ever what?''

''Just, you know. Dated someone, like a girlfriend?'' Mikey’s voice is so quiet it could be mistaken for static. His eyebrows knit, as if vulnerability is a trick he hasn’t quite mastered.

Ash parses the question, flipping it over to check for hidden wires. The easiest answer is a joke, but this—this isn’t the time for deflection.

He puts his finger on the handle of his cup, keeps it there like an anchor. ''A few,'' he says. He doesn’t look away. ''Didn’t really stick.'' He can feel Mikey’s gaze, cautious but desperate for proof they’re in the same species. Ash clears his throat, wipes at nonexistent condensation on his mug. ''I think I’m not great at the rules. Or. At saying what I want.'' He runs a hand through his hair, shrugs, but Mikey doesn’t snicker or look away. He just chomps down on the nerves vibrating in his jaw and nods, like he’s been waiting for that answer.

''I never… I mean, I dated a girl in high school,'' Mikey confesses, then presses his lips together to silence the rest. ''We made out during ‘West Side Story’ rehearsal and she dumped me for the guy who played Bernardo and that was that.'' He grins—self-deprecating, a little jagged—and Ash can see his pulse beating out every word.

''I didn’t even have the excuse of musical theater,'' Ash says. ''Just terrible taste.''

They both laugh, and for a moment the tightness in the air lets up. The sky outside is a sheet of cold steel, the clouds flat and indifferent. But inside, near the bottomless dregs of their coffee, there’s a warmth neither of them had banked on.

Mikey’s phone buzzes. He fumbles it open, thumb hesitant at the notification, something urgent and familial blinking across the cracked screen. He grimaces, tucks the phone face-down again.

Ash’s voice is steady as always, but a little softer. ''Anything important?''

''Just my sister,'' Mikey says with a twist of his lips. ''She sent a picture of, yeah, a charcuterie board shaped like a hedgehog. There are green olives for the nose.''

Ash gives the kind of laugh that’s more breath than noise, and for a second his eyes, so usually guarded, go gentle. ''Nothing says domestic bliss like meat sculpture.''

Mikey nods, pretends to look out the window, but his foot is jittering under the table.

''You could come to the housewarming,'' Mikey says. ''My sister would love you. Or at least gossip about you forever.'' He bites down on the offer, startled at how true it rings once spoken.

Ash shakes his head, half-amused, half-terrified. ''I don’t do well at parties. Remember?''

''Who says it’s a party? Bring a ventriloquist dummy and no one’s looking at you,'' Mikey replies, then flushes, clearly not expecting the words to be received as anything but a joke.

But Ash nods, and the idea settles between them, not as a dare but as a possibility.

''I’ll text you the address, if you give me your number, '' Mikey says, rapidly sweeping his chaotic notes together, as if that’s the most natural thing in the world.

Ash feels a prickle beneath his skin, somewhere between a shiver and a static charge. ''Deal. But I’m bringing a bottle of Gatorade. It’s tradition.''

Ash leans back, the edge of his chair creaking under the redistribution of weight, and pulls his phone from his pocket. He slides it across the table, face up. For a fleeting second, Mikey hesitates, then picks it up, his thumbs hovering uncertainly before he starts typing.

He enters his number under ''Wet Dog,'' then adds a paw print emoji for punctuation, because it feels like the kind of safety net the moment needs. He hands the phone back, their fingers not quite touching, but the static present nonetheless.

''Nice,'' Ash says, not as a joke, just an observation, and tucks the phone away.

They sit silent, but it isn’t empty anymore. Mikey closes his laptop, shoves it into his bag with a grunt, and Ash tries to remember if he’s ever sat this long in any café without itching to leave. The answer is no. The answer is Mikey.

''See you tonight?'' Mikey asks, standing but not quite committed to leaving.

Ash thinks about it. Thinks about how every social event is just a new angle on loneliness, how every party blends into static unless there’s a shard of something real to catch the light. He nods, once. "If the dummy tries anything funny, you’ll be my witness."

Mikey grins—unexpectedly bright, as if Ash had told a secret and it was one worth keeping .

He lingers at the door, shifting his tote over his shoulder, then pivots to say, ''Don’t bail, okay? I’ll save you a seat by the hedgehog.'' His voice is half-taunt, half-beg, the way only someone who truly doubts you’ll come can sound.

Ash watches him go, the awkward energy Mikey leaves behind buzzing in the cheap art and stick-on tile. It’s a long time before he finishes his coffee, and even longer before he lets himself admit he’s looking forward to anything.

He stares at the closed door long after the bell stops ringing. He finishes his coffee—swell, as always—and when the aftertaste lingers metallic on his tongue, he wonders what it is exactly about Mikey that keeps sticking, long after the scene should’ve faded.