Coffee Shop
November third, you remember clearly, was the day you met Sebastian.
As an executive assistant to one of the editors in Bloomsbury Publishing, your job wasn’t easy. Of course, it will never be as difficult as the people you work for, but it wasn’t a stress-free task either.
You were one out of a hundred employees who hoped to get a book published someday. But the road to being published has never been easy; no author has ever said it was. You worked nine hours a day, six days a week—sometimes seven, and all year long except for the holidays. Answering phone calls has become a skill, and so is responding to a hundred e-mails everyday. Your job description also includes fixing Marlene’s schedule, making her coffee thrice a day, reviewing memos and mails, printing everything she asks you to, and just about everything that made Marlene’s job easier.
You never complain, though, because Marlene Parker was a good person. Yes, she becomes strictly professional when needed, but she wasn’t as cruel as movies would portray associate editors would be. And she has always been sweet to you, always reminding you that you’d get published soon, and that you’ll be whoever you want to be. All you needed to do was wait for your time, and while you do, work hard.
And that’s what you do everyday.
But one particular day, November third, a shift happened.
You were late and you had no one to blame but your friends who insisted you should go out on a Wednesday night instead of drowning yourself in paper works. And so you were hangover on the morning of November third and had no time to make yourself a cup of coffee to get you through the day.
On your way to work, all you could think about was how grateful you are that Marlene was out of town for a convention and won’t be back until the week after. Hugging your purse tighter on your side in hopes of keeping your warmer, you entered the nearest coffee shop you could go. The place was located two blocks away from your apartment, and despite living in one of the quietest parts of New York (if that even exists), it was full. Perhaps it was because everyone was just having a bad November third, you didn’t know. But there was no time to wonder why suddenly the place was tight.
You looked at the time, half an hour past seven. You were supposed to be at work half an hour ago but you needed your coffee fix. Besides, you’re not really needed at work when Marlene’s not around.
After ordering your usual—a latte with extra milk, you took a seat at the booth by the window. You silently waited for the barista to serve your to-go coffee.
And maybe it was the universe tilting on your side once again, like the day you got accepted in Brown for college, because seconds later, Sebastian Stan stood in front of you, asking if the seat was taken.
Surprised, you shook you head and took your bag from the table to give him space. He sat down casually and removed his glasses. Even with his tired eyes, he still looked good.
You knew him, of course. You were a big fan of Marvel yourself. And you might have seen him before, you thought. Perhaps on the busy streets or anywhere else, but you couldn’t remember. It was New York, you could never really remember where you saw a person, because here, you saw everyone everywhere.
“How are you?” he asked, extending a hand, which you gladly took. “I’m Sebastian, by the way. I’d sit elsewhere but every table’s taken.”
“I’m (Y/N),” you responded. “And it’s alright, I would have done the same.”
“So, you live here?” he asked, almost too quick, and then shook his head. “Sorry, it’s really early and I just got back from a fifteen-hour flight. I get really talkative and chirpy, which I think is really weird but I—”
“It’s alright,” you assured. “And yes, I live here, just around the corner actually.” You reminded yourself to breathe. “So, fifteen hours, huh? Must be a pain.”
“Absolutely,” he replied. “I couldn’t sleep on the plane. I napped maybe a couple of hours, but after that I just watched whatever was on the television. Are you here a lot?”
You shook your head. “Only today. I usually make my own coffee but I’m running late. Well, I’m actually very late now. Where’s my latte?”
He let out a laugh and combed his finger through his hair. “Well, I’m a regular—at least when I’m home. I pledged myself to tone it down a little with Starbucks coffee, so here I am.”
You nodded, unable to think of anything else to say. Thank goodness the barista called your name along with your drink.
“That’s me,” you said, getting up. “I’m really in a hurry. Must go now."
He nodded, giving me a sly smile. “Alright, then, (Y/N),” he said. “It was nice meeting you.” He offered another handshake, which you gladly took once again, letting your palms touch longer that it should because you’re sure it would be the last time.
“Welcome back to New York.”
“I’ll see you around,” he said, letting you go and get your drink.
You smiled as you took your drink from the barista’s hand and walked out of the place, reminding yourself not to look at him.
“I hope I do.”