parking on the street opposite the coffee shop. I had to feed a meter, but I was happy to do so. When you intend paying for Blue Mountain, undoubtedly the king of coffee and with a price tag to match, you didn’t quibble over a handful of quarters.
The barista was a middle-aged woman with a French accent. She was slim, with dark hair, dark eyes, perhaps a tad too large in the nose and lips to be described as beautiful, but good-looking all the same. I wasn’t sure if she was from France, Europe, if she was French Canadian, or from some other French-speaking country. Our conversations had been pleasant and polite to date, but hadn’t gone beyond the small talk associated with the ordering and imbibing of the best coffee in the city, perhaps the country. I knew her name from the badge she wore pinned to her blouse: Jolie. I hadn’t realized she’d learned my name until she delivered my drink and placed it down before me.
“You are Joe Hunter, yes?” She pronounced my first name ‘Show,’ and rolled the second syllable of my last name across her tongue. I found the sound of her voice endearing.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I replied. “Although I’ve never heard my name spoken quite as sweetly before.”
“I know you,” she said, apparently used to the compliments her accent gained her and beyond acknowledging them with more than the quirk of one corner of her mouth. “You have been a good customer. But I was not sure of your name until today.”
I felt that little stir in the gut that meant that bad news was coming. “Oh, and how did that come about?”
“There was a man in here asking about you. He described you, said you were probably from England, and that someone told him you could be regularly found at my café.” She paused to aim a hooded look back up the street. I guessed her gaze was set three blocks down. “You work for Mister Rington, no?”
I didn’t have to nod. She already knew. “This man, he said he would look for you there again, but when he’s been by your office no one is there.”
“Been a busy time for us,” I said, noncommittally. Steam wafted toward me from my drink. The aroma was glorious. I let the coffee stand. “This man told you my name?”
“Not him. He only described you. I get many English tourists in my café but he described only you.”
I wondered what she meant by that. I’m not exactly distinctive. I stand a tad under six feet, so am not overly tall, have an athletic build, but then so have many, and wear my brown hair in an easy-to-handle short style. Some people have described my eye-coloring as memorable, a kind of blue-green edged in brown, but I think they’re referring more to the look of my eyes when the cold gleam of battle’s in them: it’s not a look I generally have when relaxing with a cup of Blue Mountain in Jolie’s establishment.
Jolie could read my confusion. She reached across unashamedly and rolled up the right sleeve of my T-shirt. She patted the tattoo on my bicep. “Only you wear this design.”
She was only partly correct. Rink also bore the same tattoo, but I guessed she hadn’t seen him with bared arms, and there was little to confuse me with my big Asian-American friend. Rink is distinctive. He stands half a head taller than me, is built like a pro wrestler, and the epicanthic folds of his heritage give him almond-shaped eyes. Plus he tends to wear gaudy colors, brightly patterned Hawaiian shirts and board shorts being his favorites when in casual mode.
To be fair, I couldn’t ever recall displaying my tats in Jolie’s place, but there was always the possibility she’d glanced over while I rubbed at an itch on my shoulder or something and inadvertently gave her a flash. To most the tattoo would mean little. Three intersecting arrows on a shield; weighing scales upholding a crescent on one side and an oval on the other. The symbols were stylized devil’s horns and a halo, signifying the balancing of evil against good. The
The barista was a middle-aged woman with a French accent. She was slim, with dark hair, dark eyes, perhaps a tad too large in the nose and lips to be described as beautiful, but good-looking all the same. I wasn’t sure if she was from France, Europe, if she was French Canadian, or from some other French-speaking country. Our conversations had been pleasant and polite to date, but hadn’t gone beyond the small talk associated with the ordering and imbibing of the best coffee in the city, perhaps the country. I knew her name from the badge she wore pinned to her blouse: Jolie. I hadn’t realized she’d learned my name until she delivered my drink and placed it down before me.
“You are Joe Hunter, yes?” She pronounced my first name ‘Show,’ and rolled the second syllable of my last name across her tongue. I found the sound of her voice endearing.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I replied. “Although I’ve never heard my name spoken quite as sweetly before.”
“I know you,” she said, apparently used to the compliments her accent gained her and beyond acknowledging them with more than the quirk of one corner of her mouth. “You have been a good customer. But I was not sure of your name until today.”
I felt that little stir in the gut that meant that bad news was coming. “Oh, and how did that come about?”
“There was a man in here asking about you. He described you, said you were probably from England, and that someone told him you could be regularly found at my café.” She paused to aim a hooded look back up the street. I guessed her gaze was set three blocks down. “You work for Mister Rington, no?”
I didn’t have to nod. She already knew. “This man, he said he would look for you there again, but when he’s been by your office no one is there.”
“Been a busy time for us,” I said, noncommittally. Steam wafted toward me from my drink. The aroma was glorious. I let the coffee stand. “This man told you my name?”
“Not him. He only described you. I get many English tourists in my café but he described only you.”
I wondered what she meant by that. I’m not exactly distinctive. I stand a tad under six feet, so am not overly tall, have an athletic build, but then so have many, and wear my brown hair in an easy-to-handle short style. Some people have described my eye-coloring as memorable, a kind of blue-green edged in brown, but I think they’re referring more to the look of my eyes when the cold gleam of battle’s in them: it’s not a look I generally have when relaxing with a cup of Blue Mountain in Jolie’s establishment.
Jolie could read my confusion. She reached across unashamedly and rolled up the right sleeve of my T-shirt. She patted the tattoo on my bicep. “Only you wear this design.”
She was only partly correct. Rink also bore the same tattoo, but I guessed she hadn’t seen him with bared arms, and there was little to confuse me with my big Asian-American friend. Rink is distinctive. He stands half a head taller than me, is built like a pro wrestler, and the epicanthic folds of his heritage give him almond-shaped eyes. Plus he tends to wear gaudy colors, brightly patterned Hawaiian shirts and board shorts being his favorites when in casual mode.
To be fair, I couldn’t ever recall displaying my tats in Jolie’s place, but there was always the possibility she’d glanced over while I rubbed at an itch on my shoulder or something and inadvertently gave her a flash. To most the tattoo would mean little. Three intersecting arrows on a shield; weighing scales upholding a crescent on one side and an oval on the other. The symbols were stylized devil’s horns and a halo, signifying the balancing of evil against good. The
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