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YFM FanFic Chapter 1: The Encounter "C'mon! Let's get out of here." Sara said, anxious to leave the mall.
"Alright," I agreed. "Just let me buy this." I held up a sketchbook as I walked towards the check-out register.
Sara was really the only person I could talk to and be around for hours, days, even weeks, without getting bored or tired of her. Come to think of it, she's the only one I do talk to. Ever since I moved to Florida with her, she was the only one I really knew. Plus, I don't like meeting new people that much. I've been pretty anti-social my entire life ever since I lost my sister. She was the only one I was close to until I met Sara a few months afterwards.
"Is that all for you today?" the lady that worked behind the cash register smiled politely. Her sleek brown hair fell down to her shoulders, and somehow, somewhere deep inside of my mind, she reminded me of my sister. But I quickly sho
YFM FanFic Chapter 2: Hey, you look familiar!I gasped in horror at the sight. There were four coffees that were in the carrier he was holding, which were now all over us.
"Oh my god.." I felt so bad. I really wasn't paying attention. "I am so sorry! I should've watched where I was going.."
He flipped his blonde hair, which now had coffee in it, along with mine. His blue suit he was wearing was soaked. Most of the coffee had spilled on him, leaving little on me. There was minimal coffee stains on my sweatshirt and shorts, compared to him. My hair was covered though. Probably because I'm so short.
"Don't be sorry, you're fine. It was an accident, after all." he shrugged his shoulders and slightly smiled. I noticed that he had a fairly heavy British accent.
His reaction was extremely calm. I figured he'd freak out on me like anyone else would.
It hit me just then. I had come in tact with a guy. Ever since Laur
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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