Chapter 2: Coffee Shop
1202 Words
We turned the corner, the familiar, slightly depressing neon sign of the shop flickering like a dying heartbeat.
It was time to trade our dignity for a P356.22 cup of liquid disappointment.
After a few minutes of walking we arrived at Whimsy Coffee Shop-the gold standard for people who have given up on their dreams but still need to be awake.
Whimsy isn't a "third place"; it's a transit lounge for the soul. Nobody "lingers" here.
You sit for exactly 22 minutes-long enough for the caffeine to hit your bloodstream but not long enough for the plastic chairs to fuse to your skin-and then you vanish.
There is no community here.
No one knows the barista's name, and the barista prefers it that way; if they don't know your name, they don't have to feel guilty about what they're serving you.
It's the kind of place that feels transient, like the building is just resting here for a few months before it inevitably transforms into a laundromat or a shady check-cashing store.
I ordered the House Drip (P356.22), the skeletal remains of Whimsy's reputation.
It has sat on the burner for precisely 45 minutes-never fresh, yet somehow immune to aging.
It's the "vampire" of coffee.
I added three creamers to mask the bitterness, which tasted less like roasted beans and more like a burnt car tire that had been handled with care.
Demi, on the other hand, ordered the Chai Latte (P425.00).
Calling it "Chai" is a legal stretch.
It's a beige powder that tastes like cinnamon-flavored regret and dusty attic dreams.
Because Demi likes to pretend we aren't at a shop that uses powdered milk, he looked the barista dead in the eye and asked for oat milk.
The barista didn't even look up.
He just pointed a trembling finger at a stack of non-dairy creamer packets that looked like they were manufactured in the late 90s.
"We have water," the barista muttered.
Demi sighed, took his cup of spicy dust, and sat down.
"One day, El," he whispered, staring into the foam.
"One day, we'll work at a marketing firm that pays us in actual cow secretions."
"But why do you always ask for oat milk even though you know they don't have it?"
I asked, leaning back as the plastic chair groaned under my weight.
I was genuinely curious about this specific brand of insanity he performed daily.
"Well, you know... it's just for extra words. To make the interaction feel longer,"
Demi replied with a shrug, taking a cautious sip of his Chai-flavored cinnamon regret.
"Make it long for what?"
I pressed, my eyebrows knitting together.
Was he trying to find love at the counter of a failing coffee shop?
"Nothing, just don't mind me," he mumbled, his eyes darting away as if he'd said too much.
He suddenly pivoted, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.
"By the way, El, have you heard the news about our old classmate, Syka?"
"What about her?"
I replied, my thumb rhythmically scrolling through my phone to avoid making eye contact with a suspicious-looking stain on our table.
"She made it. She's officially in the Top 10 Associates of Lesive Association."
My thumb froze on the screen.
"Lesive? The giants? The only ones who can actually make Tate Association look like a lemonade stand?"
"The very same,"
Demi nodded, his expression a mix of genuine awe and mild existential dread.
"I didn't expect her to actually breach the walls of our rival company, let alone lead the pack."
"Good for her,"
I said, though the words felt heavy, like lead.
I let out a long, weary sigh and shrugged my shoulders, trying to shake off the sudden weight of my own mediocrity.
"She always said she'd be a Lesive Associate. And she did it."
I looked down at my House Drip, whispering into the steam so Demi wouldn't hear,
"What about me? I've been working nonstop for years and I'm still just a Marketing Assistant... a professional paper-pusher."
I took a gulp of the coffee; it was lukewarm and tasted exactly like my life-bitter, cheap, and slightly burnt at the edges.
"What are you muttering about? Stop being miserable like it's your final moment on Earth-"
Demi's attempt at "tough love" was violently interrupted.
A group of loud customers burst through the door, laughing with a volume that suggested they had never heard of the concept of 'indoor voices.'
They sat at the table next to us, their knock-off designer bags hitting the floor with a thud that sounded suspiciously like cheap plastic.
They were clearly trying to look like Lesive Association executives, but their presence in Whimsy proved they were strictly on a 'budget-water' salary.
But the one who caught my attention wasn't trying to be noticed at all.
While her companions clattered and clanked, she moved like water.
She was the eye of their garish storm.
The blazer they all wore was, on her, not a costume.
On her, the severe cut of the navy fabric looked like a statement of intent, a silent announcement of authority.
One of them leaned over to her friend, her voice piercing through the shop's quiet misery:
"You drink coffee like it's a personality trait!" she shrieked with a laugh.
"Excuse me!" her friend fired back, clutching a venti-sized cup like a holy relic.
"I'll have you know I'm a complex blend of anxiety and caffeine!"
Demi and I shared a look.
The irony was physically painful.
"How many cups have you had today?" the first one asked, sounding horrified.
"I lost count after I started seeing sounds and hearing colors," the caffeine-addict replied, her eyes wide and slightly twitchy.
"Maybe switch to decaf?"
"Decaf is just hot bean juice with false promises. I don't trust it!" she declared, slamming her cup down.
"One day my heart is going to quit on me, but worth it! At least my funeral will smell like espresso!"
Demi turned back to me, his eyes deadpan as he gestured toward the loud table with his plastic spoon.
"See, El?"
Demi whispered, his voice dripping with dry humor.
"And you think your life is bitter? At least we aren't at the 'seeing sounds' stage of the Marketing Assistant career path.
That's usually reserved for Senior Management."
I couldn't help it; a small, reluctant smile cracked through my gloom.
"True. If my heart quits, it'll probably just smell like this P356.22 House Drip.
Nobody wants to attend a funeral that smells like a burnt tire."
"Exactly,"
Demi grinned, holding up his powdered Chai.
"To be stuck in the middle! It's safer for the heart rate."
The laughter at the neighboring table died down just enough for the scraping of my chair to sound like a tectonic shift.
I tried to look invisible-a skill I had perfected in corporate meetings-but Demi was still holding his chai aloft like a trophy.
For a long moment, the girl I couldn't stop staring at-the one whose beauty had snagged my attention and held it hostage-froze mid-sip.
Her gaze drifted over to our table, sharp and unnervingly precise, as if she was cutting through the dim light of Whimsy just to land on me.
- Writer
