She picks a coffee shop even after I tell her the smells will be overwhelming for me.
I can smell the fresh-ground beans from a block away and kind of slow my roll to get used to it before I even step in the door.
Well, I tend to walk pretty slowly anyway.
I get there a little early, but only because she’s so late.
It’s a few days after Halloween and the specials board is already crammed with festive holiday treats: pumpkin scones, harvest blend coffee, pecan tarts, moose berry mocha.
I get something sweet and cold and squishy—a cinnamon and hazelnut whip-a-chino—and wait for it awkwardly, aware that most of the eyes in the room are on me, as usual.
The counter girl is pretty with flawless skin and looks like your typical college freshman. She has a tattoo of a butterfly on her neck just above her green barista collar and another in the web of skin between her thumb and forefinger.
When she’s done, she puts the frozen coffee drink on the counter and backs away cautiously. I shrug and take my drink, tempted to lunge just to watch butterfly girl flinch. Bet she wouldn’t look so flawless then.
I sit in a corner booth, near a window but away from the few hipster couples pretending to stare at their cell phones instead of me.
Even though I have Public Zone clearance and it’s against the law to discriminate against the undead, that doesn’t stop lots of folks from being nasty to my kind.
Whatever. It’s fine. I’m used to it by now.
Soft jazz music plays overhead, something instrumental and old with guitars, but still vaguely cool. I watch the front door until she arrives.
She’s in full-in reporter mode, right down to the distressed leather handbag and beret. Yeah, you heard right: a beret. She has one of those sleek little voice recorder things in her hands even as she stands in line. It’s white, and she wields it proudly as if to say, Look at me, I’m gonna record something in a minute .
She ignores me, completely, while butterfly girl behind the counter smiles and gushes and says, I kid you not, “I love your beret.”
Well, Julia’s always had that effect on people.
They talk a little more, like a couple of Cheer Club spazzes, until butterfly girl hands over her coffee and Julia finally casts her eyes on me. They’re brown and cruel, and she doesn’t smile.
She looks at my booth as if to say it’s not big enough, but she can’t complain since a) she picked the place and b) all the seats are pretty much tables for two.
“Hi, Julia,” I say, watching her flinch to hear the way my new voice grinds out her name. “What took you so long?”
“Huh?” she asks, annoyed that I’d call her on it, like my time is any less valuable than hers. “Oh, the bus ran late.”
I scoff. Julia? On a bus? Not hardly.
She sits just inside the booth, one thigh off the cushion and foot pointed toward the door. My back is against the window, arm tossed lazily over the top of the booth, fingers pale at the end of my turtleneck sweater sleeve.
She takes her time pulling a notebook out of the leather bag, clicking and un-clicking a big purple pen and rolling a breath mint around her tongue.
I roll my eyes and move my hand, as if to get up and storm out. “You know, Julia, I’m doing you the favor here, right? Not the other way around?”
Her eyes get big but she doesn’t budge, at least not until I shift my foot and start to inch out of the booth for real.
She nods and says, “Okay, okay, I’m ready. Just…let me push this button here and…go.”
She points the sleek white recorder in my direction and stares at me.
“Would you like to ask me a question first?” I grunt. “Or should I just do all the work for you?”
She looks down at her notebook and nods again. “What’s your name, for the record?”
I snort and say, “Reginald Archer Addison.”
She rolls her eyes dismissively. “I meant your zombie name.”
I grit my teeth a little; she already knows all this.
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