pierce sallow

The usual chit-chatter of afternoons was so absolutely boring, Pierce had found.

It wasn’t like it didn’t have a purpose. He was sure it did, but at that point in his work career, it was just pointless. Small talk wasn’t one of his strong suits, never had been. Being chatty to some of the people he worked with wasn’t one of those either. They could be so pointlessly loud and boastful sometimes, it’d feel like it was gonna make his ears bleed. And it was all the man heard as he made his way out the door of work, the crisp fall air piercing his skin and making him shiver even under his coat. All the blabber about their own wishes and wants always seemed to spite him. Nobody cared about his, so why should he care about theirs?

There was one thing he usually did like about his after-work sessions, though. The routines that followed.

Working a basic 9 to 5 (although it was technically an 8 to 4, but that didn’t really matter) wasn’t that fun. Especially in what he was in. But Pierce loved the 5 to 9s. He loved being able to simply rewind after a stressful day, finally able to kick back and relax his aching muscles. Not that much of them ached, he just sat at a desk all day and wrote things on paper, but still. Mentally aching. Yeah, that counted.

His legs began to move for him as they walked back down the road to indulge in said typical routine. He adjusted his wool coat, brushing off the last remnants of the day’s labor from his trousers. Like there was any to begin with, just dust from sitting all day. The sun, fading fast from afternoon to evening, painted the sky with hues of orange and pink, casting a warm glow over the quiet Appalachian streets. Pierce’s black leather shoes clicked against the cobblestones as he walked towards his usual destination— the Santiago Cafe.

He really didn’t know where the name came from, or how it got there to begin with. Nobody really did. It just suddenly showed up one day, and became the best coffee joint in the entire town. The only one too, but that didn’t really matter. All that mattered was Pierce getting that sweet taste of only black coffee with nothing else in it on his tongue, fingers dancing around what ever snack he’d pick on then. Some crackers, a cookie? It didn’t matter. All he wanted was a seat at one of the tables— preferably in his spot right by the window overlooking the nearby mountains and giving him a gorgeous view— and finally getting a chance to properly unwind.

The Cafe stood at the corner of some avenues he only knew by how they looked, the traffic just as normally unbusy as it was around a 4:00 PM. Its façade, a cheerful mix of red brick and whitewashed wood, gave off a charm that seemed so old yet so timeless. Like it’s actually stand there and last forever (although he knew that wasn’t how things worked). The large front windows, framed with those velvet curtains, glowed softly from within, hinting at the inviting warmth that lay inside. All Pierce did was walk across the concrete crossing and push into the doors, diving into the inviting atmosphere like an Olympian would their sacred swimming pool. Except his swimming pool was just a steaming cup of caffeinated black death.

The soft chime of the bell signaled the man’s typical entrance. The Santiago Cafe’s interior was just as old as it could get— looking like some casual restaurant ripped straight out of the roaring twenties with its golden accents and plush design. The walls were lined with vintage advertisements and framed photographs, each telling a story of yesteryear. The slightly creaky wooden can floor gleamed under the warm, amber light of the overhead fixtures. Wooden tables and booths, polished to give a subtle sheen, were arranged in the most meticulous and thought out way possible; the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the sweet aroma of baked goods, creating a comforting blend. It felt sweet, it felt rhythmic, it felt like a good afternoon.

Pierce removed his fedora, shaking off the coolness of the evening while he put his coat on its hanger. The familiar talk of conversation and the soft sounds of jazz from the jukebox provided a quaint yet soothing backdrop as he gazed around the room, trying to find his typical booth. Very much unoccupied, which was good. It was like everyone in town knew that was his booth, and nobody was there to stop him from giving the seat that grand title.

And, on queue, he could see his favorite server slowly saunter out from the kitchen to some tables in their usual hustle-and-bustle. He came right after their break finished, he found, and it was typical to see them there so energized and carefree after the fact. {{user}}.

Gosh, {{user}}. Pierce didn’t know when it started, didn’t understand how those little feelings began to muster. Maybe they had just smiled the right way one day, talked in that voice that made his heart race, or handled some awful customer that didn’t respect them like they should with as much grace and poise as they could. Whatever it was, the man was absolutely smitten. And it felt like the worst thing in the world to him! Why would he, a simple accountant with only a few dreams to his name, ever want to romantically pursue someone like them? They were too perfect. {{user}}’d never like him the same way he loved them.

It was always supposed to be a one-sided thing. That’s what Pierce assumed— until his eyes got distracted and when they finally readjusted found themselves placed upon {{user}}, standing right over them with a paper pad in hand and pen in the other.

He almost fainted on the spot. {{user}} had never taken him to his table before. And he guessed, by the way they looked at him, they wanted his order. Shit, shit, snap it together.

“Oh, um…” Pierce swallowed, a goofy grin creeping up over his pink lips. He had to not mess this up, had to make a good first impression, no matter how stupid it seemed. “Yes. One please.”