Story No. 3: Coffee, Jazz & Books

The sharp clatter of a pan from the kitchen below sends a startled ripple through his skittish black cat, launching from my lap onto the freshly vacuumed white carpet, and darting out through the slightly ajar door. On his memory foam pillow, I rub my crusty eyes, finding only the empty silhouette of his absence next to me. The mattress bears the evidence of where he slept, and the disheveled blankets whisper of a hasty exit. Why didn't he wake me up, especially after my bedtime reminders about my 9 AM work shift? (Well, I did plan on a leisurely brunch at the Rockaway diner, savoring some pancakes and coffee, but that's a secret between me and the morning.)

I pivot towards his wooden bedside dresser, stretching for my phone still tethered to his outlet. The bright screen screams 7 AM. A sigh of relief escapes me. Good. I have time.

“CAPTAIN, stop it,” a stern reprimand echoes, and I tiptoe towards the door, hearing the thunder of at least six paws skidding aggressively on the kitchen floor.

“TEENEY. SIT.” The chaos hushes. “GOOD BOY TEENEY. GOOOOOOD.” His voice ascends three octaves in baby talk. I can almost visualize the dogs eagerly munching kibble, their wet noses clanging against metal bowls in unison.

A grin plays on my face. I'm one of those people who talks to animals, especially my dogs—they're just a big part of my life. No shame in admitting it. He, on the other hand, projects differently. Just yesterday, I walked into his place, and his dogs practically mobbed me with kisses, targeting my legs. And his response? "You assholes!"—complaining about potential skirt scratches, even though those furballs were about as harmless as teddy bears. But catch him chatting with them alone, and it's like they're his own children, the cutest things around. It tells me there's more to him than meets the eye. He has a tough front and hides a softer side, a guy with warmth and care deep down. He's a complex puzzle, difficult to crack, but I’ve got him read.

The rhythmic ticking of a flame and a light crack against the counter lure me out into the hallway. The scent of butter and eggs wafts through the air. Is he really cooking this early? Intriguing. Curiosity nudges me forward.

Overcoming the barricade meant to keep the dogs downstairs, I turn the corner and spot the back of him, a 5-foot-11 man who left me alone in bed. He's clad in black jeans and a matching T-shirt. I place myself by the table, beside two glass doors leading to the porch. With a flick of his wrist, he flips eggs, then notices me.

“Good morning,” he greets, a soft smile playing on his lips, placing the pan back on the stove and reaching for the pantry.

“Morning,” I reply, rubbing my hands together and tucking them into the back of my thighs. He turns to me, Folger's jar in hand.

“I have two questions for you,” he announces, placing the jar down and transferring the eggs onto a plate.

“Go for it,” I entertain, my eyes flitting to a self-help book on the table. He catches my gaze, dropping his smile. His lips press flat against eachother.

“How do you like your eggs?” His voice lowers. He tightens his jaw and grabs silverware from the drawer.

“Over-easy, why?” He approaches the table, balancing the plate and a coffee mug like a seasoned waiter. I furrow my eyebrows.

“I am not great with over-easy, so is scrambled okay?” He slides the plate under my chest and pulls out a chair across from me. I tuck my curly bangs behind my ears.

“You didn’t have to,” I protest, but he just shrugs, sliding his mug inward, and scooting himself closer to the table's edge. His coffee, as dark as mine, hides the bottom of his college mug. I guess my Rockaway diner plans are shelved for now. I like this. I like him.

He reaches for the book on the table beside me and tucks it on the right chair cushion next to him. A prolonged silence hangs in the air. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, eyes locked onto mine.

He begins tracing circles on his cup with his right index finger. "Living alone is going to be weird" he admits. I steal a bite of the eggs, placing the fork gently on a folded napkin. "The quiet can be nice.”

“Love the quiet,” he chirps, his brown eyes fixated on my eggs, intimate like his gaze was looking at my backside last night. Damn, it’s that serious. I slide the plate towards him. He pushes it back, opening his hands in a gesture. "Eat," he orders, shaking his head. My stomach knots. Why doesn't he want to eat? I take a deep breath, deciding not to press. I guess I’ll stay on topic.

“When my parents are asleep in the morning, it feels like I’m by myself, and I just soak up in a book, brew a cup of coffee, and it’s great.” I stare at the chair next to him, and his eyes squint.

“Starting the morning with coffee and reading is the best. But it’s going to feel like I don’t exist when I’m in my new apartment.”

I tilt my head. “And you’d like that?” He looks down at Teeney resting his wet nose on his thigh.

Guess I won’t press there either. “My current read is dangerous,” I blurt, cutting another egg bite.

“What’s your current book?” he brushes his hair away, but it just swoops back onto the temples of his forehead.

“It’s probably not something I should be reading first thing…” I clear my throat glancing back up at him. He gives me a frown, cocking his eyebrows up, waiting for me to finish.

“It’s a spicy romance. And, it’s...it’s a little too spicy.”

He snorts. “Starting your day with book porn. I love it.” My cheeks grow hot.

“Yeah,” I admit. “And then after absorbing 50 pages of book porn, I start work and have to act professional.” He laughs, “Do you ever see your workday through the lens of book porn?”

“No. If I want to find my real-life Miles Archer, I would have to find him outside of work.” I playfully kick his foot under the table. His legs remain still.

“I’ve also read 50 Shades of Grey, and I don’t know how people are so into those books.”

My arms crossed, surprised. “Did you really?” I lean back into the seat.

“I did, and it was trash.” He returns the tap from his foot against mine under the table without looking.

“True. That book is all just a cheesy fantasy.”

He takes another sip of his coffee. “If you want some fifty shades action, maybe you should talk to the CEO of the company you work at.”

I roll my eyes at his humor. “I want a man that makes me feel like liquid.” He smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. I continue. “Sorry, that sounded better in my head but it makes sense to me.” He chuckles.

“I can understand it.” He gets it.

“Like. I am a hopeless romantic and feel hopeless at the same time in this hook-up culture we live in, but at the same time, I want to be single. But at the same time, I don’t, so I stick to my book porn for now.”

He takes a dry gulp. “I am totally with you on that one. I am lonely so I don’t want to be single, but if I want to date not to feel lonely, then I shouldn’t date at all.”

I nod, a slow motion that brings my gaze down to the half-eaten eggs. Out of nowhere, my appetite vanishes, and my fork takes on the role of dismantler, breaking the eggs into smaller bits on the plate. "Shit's wack," he chimes in, echoing my contemplation as our attention lingers on the plate. Teeney's black bean eyes still beg for mercy, pleading for a bite, and without a second thought, he dismisses him with a sudden jolt of his leg.

“I feel that, yeah. I can’t tell if I am scared to be in a relationship, or if I’m just not ready for commitment." My eyelids were doing a little dance, fluttering too fast through those lies. Truth is, I'm more than ready for a relationship—with him, no less. I wish I could just lay it out for him. But then there's this story about him not feeling the same way for some "chick" back in college who sent him love letters. Makes my truth seem like a ticking bomb for our six years' worth of friendship. But we digress. "Anyways. What’s your current read?"

"I have a book from my grandmother that I read a page from every morning. Then I will read whatever book it is I am currently reading."

Returning the favor, I give him a frown and cock my eyebrows up, waiting. He nods, turns to the chair beside him, and lifts the self-help book back onto the table facing me.

"The book my grandmother gave me is an Alcoholics Anonymous Self-improvement book." He slides it across the table. I open the front cover. "Do you like the book?" My fingers hover over the Times New Roman font that reads Chapter Onein bold.

"Yeah, it’s good. It’s nice to start the day with some mindfulness, but it’s a little heavy on dealing with alcoholics."

Another pause. "By the way," he continues. "If you enjoy coffee and reading in the morning, you should add some light jazz to it."

"You think light jazz is a good tempo to the book porn I read?"

He chuckles. "Maybe heavy metal. I don't know how hard you read your book porn." I cover my face, shaking in laughter. "I can try the jazz."

"Highly recommend." He gets up, grabs my plate and the fork, takes a bite out of the eggs, and turns to the counter space in the kitchen, disposing of the food in the trash.