I sit at my local spot at the café; sipping my mocha and watching the time pass me by in colors. It won't be long before the closing time hits and I'll be forced to leave my chair and find another spot to brood and grumble.
I haven't received the financial aid that was promised me in weeks. I can honestly say, as a black woman of pride, I need that money. With bills due, my job cutting back on hours, and laundry piling up, I'm stressing. My roommate Bernice is sweet enough to let me slide on the rent last month, but I can tell she wasn't too happy with me living with her if I'm not carrying my weight in finances.
I spent 50% of my cash on food, 25% on gas, 20% on water and the other 5% on my daily caffeine fix here at this coffee shop.
I blame Fuckboy.
Fuckboy was an old classmate of mine that I had a thing for since Sophomore Year. He's smart, goal-oriented and driven, the object of my affections. The only problem: he left before I could ask him out on a date. He's off at some fancy, all-white college that is miles away. He used to work here; I would buy mochas just to see his face, hear that deep voice that makes my panties wet. He's gone, but I'm still coming here.
Why?
Because of his brother.
His brother is a few years younger than us; fresh out of high school and taking his brother's place. It wouldn't bother me if he didn't look so much like him; he's like Fuckboy's carbon copy. Same build, same voice, same facial structure, same piercing green eyes that renders me stupid. He's even tall like him; towering over me whenever I ask for my usual. He smells like coffee, of subtle cologne and aftershave.
He even smells like him.
Unfortunately, his attitude and personality ruins any feelings of attraction.
He's rude, vain, and ignorant; he seems to have it out for me whenever I walk in. Be it his condescending tone, or the way he acts like I'm some trash that he doesn't want to touch when I hand him my money, he doesn't like me and he makes it clear when no one's around. He comments on my size, my dreadlocks, even the way I smelled when his coworkers weren't looking. In return I remind him of his own shortcomings and if I didn't get my respect he'll be dealing with my fists. He gave in every time, but a part of me felt that was the reaction he was looking for, like he was getting a kick out of seeing me angry.
It's weird; having a blatantly rude barista crack jokes about me, yet he takes extra care in how he prepares my mocha. He knows exactly what I like and he makes it down to a science. Perhaps that's why I'm always coming back. For Fuckboy 2.0, he can make the hell out of some coffee.
"Closing time, Shaniqua," His voice brings me back to reality. He knows good and well my name isn't Shaniqua; It's Claire. Claire, the most plain and Caucasian of names to give to a black girl growing up in the ghetto.
Oh, the irony.
Giving him my infamous death glare, I drank the last of my coffee and left, taking care to leave my trash for him to clean.
I made it home, only to find Bernice gone and a half-scribbled note on the fridge.
Claire,
Staying with Jonathan for a few weeks in Cancun. Will call to check in. Take good care of the apartment while I'm gone.
XOXO,Bernice.
Ripping the note off the fridge, I opened its door looking for a nice mid-afternoon snack to compliment my coffee and became gravely disappointed. Rotten orange, expired milk, wilting celery and a half-eaten tub off cottage cheese is all that remained; I guess Bernice forgot to stock up on groceries.
I made my way into my room, kicking off my shoes and undressing. There's a pervert that has a window across from my room; he likes to jack off while watching me undress. It may sound disgusting, but I find it kind of flattering; a guy finds me so sexy he thinks about me while touching himself! Isn't that hot?
I looked out my window and to my disappointment, he isn't there.
I close my blinds and dig through my dresser for my special prize.
I'm feeling pretty horny; the thought of having the apartment to myself for a few weeks has some perks. Maybe I could schedule a circle jerk tomorrow; I've been having a taste for the bukkake scene after I stumbled upon a few good vids surfing the net.
I close my eyes, my hand rubbing against my clit.
Before anything good can happen, my phone buzzed.
Sighing with frustration, I dug through my purse and fished out my phone.
"5296 Flamingo Lane Avenue, Apt. 57. 5:30. Don't be late."
Who text me this?
The author is under an unknown phone number, making me worried and agitated. I stared at my phone, questioning whether or not to ignore this text. It could be meant for someone else. It happens all the time.
Another message popped up.
"Now, Claire."
Claire?
I'm a little spooked. But then again, there are millions of Claire's in America, no need to be worried. Maybe it's a friend of mine who wanted to spook me.
My phone began to ring. It's the unknown caller.
"Hello?"
"5296 Flamingo Lane Avenue, Apt. 57. 5:30. Don't. Be. Late." A deep and strangely familiar voice made me jump.
