Anamaria sat in the coffee shop, her notes sprawled out before her, her bag haphazardly lay open beside her, its contents neat and arranged, books and notebooks just peeking out.
She was writing in a journal with fineliners of all colors, selecting one pen at a time from the unsystematic arrangement on the table, dozens of pens disorganized and displayed before her. She looked for the maroon. Then the grey. And the teal. She hovered over the blue before selecting the turquoise instead. It was a choreography of color, and she was the puppet master, gracefully lifting each pen like a string and making the colors dance.
She reached over across the table towards the periwinkle fineliner. Crash! She dropped them all, and clumsily tried to pick them. They found their way under the table, under the seat, rolled away towards neighboring coffee-drinkers. She tracked them down, muttering sheepish apologies and bumping her head on the edge table as she tried to get up. Rubbing her head, Anamaria returned to her seat and imprisoned the rogue fineliners in a prison-like pencil pouch, then tapped the pouch and looked at it warily as if trying to telepathically command it not to move. She continued writing in her journal with a black fineliner.
From across the coffee shop, James looked on at her with amusement, laughed lightheartedly, and kept on reading The House of Paper between stolen glances at the eccentric stranger.
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Twenty minutes later Anamaria was hastily packing up her things and getting ready to leave for class. She had—again—become so focused—or distracted—by the task at hand that she had lost track of time. She was running late to class.
James looked up from his book when he heard a loud thud and noticed that the poor collector-and connoisseur-of-colorful-fineliners had jammed her knee against the table as she got up and left. Anamarie rubbed her bare knee, exposed from just below her plaid skirt, made a face at herself, and walked out of the coffee shop. James followed her with his gaze, watching as she slung her backpack over her shoulders and nearly hit the student sitting at the table to her right.
She didn’t even notice, and the student flailed his arms and cussed in exasperation. His flailing arms knocked over his coffee, the hot liquid pouring out of the coffee cup, scalding his legs and staining his books and paperwork. More flailing and cussing ensued.
James chuckled, and his gaze fell on the now-empty chair the young woman had occupied just moments ago. On the table, in front of the chair, was a pencil pouch. James looked around, set down his book, and walked over to the table. Fineliners peeked out from beneath the slightly-open zipper. He looked around frantically, grabbed the pouch, and sprinted to the door, peeking out.
“Hey!” he called out. A few people turned their heads, sitting on metal chairs and wooden benches under the shade of a large tree. She was long gone.
James took the pencil pouch to the barista in case she came back to claim it, and with a slight frown, returned to his corner of the coffee shop, picked up his book, and continued reading.
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James had spent hours in the coffee shop and was now on his way back to his apartment. He had refused to leave until he finished reading The House of Paper, but time had dragged on and he was exhausted, ready to go home. He had made great progress, though, and thought he could brave through the rest of the book as soon as he grabbed some food, put on some more comfortable clothes, and perhaps cleared his mind with a bit of Netflix.
He walked past a field, strolling leisurely, one arm in his pocket and the other holding up his book. Looking up, he saw her. The girl from the coffee shop.
She seemed much different than the frazzled young student who had caused havoc and laughter in that tiny coffee shop by the library.
In the middle of the field, targets were lined up neatly, and the girl stood facing one of the center targets, bow held firmly, a quiver of arrows at her waist. She took her aim with composed resolve, her arrows flying true toward the center of the target.
James’ pace slowed as she observed her, considering how these two sides of her were so seemingly contradictory. How could these two versions of one person seem so different?
James was so lost in thought, he didn’t notice the step on the floor, tripped, and nearly fell on his face.
“Careful!” said a man in khakis and a burgundy sweater. He grabbed James’ arm and steadied him just in time to prevent him from meeting his cement doom.
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Anamaria hadn’t realized she was missing her fineliners until she had gotten home in the evening, after class, archery, and dinner. She had walked into her apartment, changed into pajamas, and plopped down on a couch to write in her journal only to find her pens missing.
She thought that perhaps, in her haste, she had left them in the coffee shop. She’d check if they were there the next morning.
For now, she decided that some reading would have to do. She carefully opened a collection of Emily Dickinson’s poems and read until she fell asleep.
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Anamaria walked into the coffee shop and marched directly to where she had sat the day before. Nothing. She looked on the floor to check. Maybe somebody had knocked the pouch to the floor. Nothing. No sign of the fineliners. They were gone.
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Five minutes later Anamaria was standing in line, her eyes gaze drifting. A young student standing in front of her started making idle conversation.
“Hey,” she said. “Finals?” she pointed at the stack of books in her arm.
“Yeah,” she said, repositioning the falling books.
“Studying here, huh? It’s packed.”
“Sort of. I lost something yesterday and I stopped by to look for it, but I figured I might as well stay and get some stuff done.”
“Makes sense.”
“Yeah.”
There was a long pause while a smartly dressed professor impatiently repeated a long and complicated order for the third time. The barista distractedly poked at the register. His eyes were red and swollen.
“Did you hear the news about the university student?” interrupted a woman in front of her.
“Um, no?” Anamaria said tentatively. She generally kept to herself and found it odd when someone made conversation with her.
“A student was run over by some stressed out distracted driver down Hailey Ave.”
“Oh my! That’s horrible! Is he okay?”
“He was dead on arrival. Killed instantly.”
Anamaria frowned, her brow furrowing in deep thought, and she repositioned the books again. She looked up at the cashier.
“No, not nonfat. Almond milk. I told you!” the customer was wearing khaki pants and brown dress shoes. He was also tapping his foot incessantly. His patience had obviously gone out the window.
The young, short cashier with the innocent face and mouse brown hair burst into tears. The young lady preparing the orders looked at him sadly, placed her hands on his shoulders, and whispered a few words to him. He nodded and disappeared behind steel doors.
In just a few moments the young lady had taken control of the register and clarified the customer’s order. The line moved up, and the woman Anamaria was talking to—or rather, the one that was talking to her—began her order.
“Yes! Exactly. Double shot, please. Thanks!”
“Alright,” said the young lady, repeating her order.
“Yup!”
There were a few moments of silence as she punched some keys on the computer, grabbed a cup, picked up a black marker, and made some markings on the cup.
“Hey, did you hear about that student that was killed?”
Anamaria looked up, pulled away from her daydreaming.
The cashier sighed. “Yeah, he was a regular here.”
“Oh, that sucks,” she said with a less-than-empathetic smile.
Anamaria watched as the young cashier reemerged—now wearing a bright blue sweater. He said a few words to the young lady, who urged him to get some rest and offered to cover his shift the next day if he needed time away, while he nodded without a word and then slipped out the back.
Once she was gone her gaze drifted back to the line just as the girl in front of her stepped aside. The young man smiled. “Welcome! May I take your order?”
“Vanilla latte, please.”
“Not a problem! What size would that be, ma’am?”
Anamaria looked up at the menu. She could never remember which was which.
“Um, tall please.”
“Alright! I’ll get that started for you. That will be $3.25.”
Anamaria handed her and a $5 bill and the cash register chimed happily as it opened. The young lady fumbled for change.
“By any chance did anyone turn in a leather pencil pouch? I left it here last night.”
The young lady looked up with an enigmatic smile.
“Yeah, I’ll get that for you in just a second.”
She came back with her pencil case in hand.
“Here you go. Your latte will be up in just a second,” she said. The sadness in her eyes betrayed her smile.
Anamaria walked over to a nearby table to set down her books and pencil bag, then returned to the counter where she waited patiently until she received her latte.
She walked back, sat down, opened one of her books, retrieved her journal, opened her pencil bag, and continued reading while making notes in her journal.
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