well that was depressing! here have a silly thing

(p.s. if the inclination strikes you, don't hesitate to rip these things to shreds. all criticism is more than welcome)

~

Today I'll greet this barista by name. Watch. He won't even see me coming.

The cafe's a franchise joint crushed between a bank and a chocolate shop. Greasy hands have made finger-paintings of the windows. I don't know who does it. I never see anyone touching the windows but the marks are new each time.

I stride inside. My eyes wander over the pastries in the display but really I'm checking behind the counter. He's not there. Well, I think, relaxing, there's a first time for everything—

'Hey, Randall,' he says behind me, and I nearly drop my shopping. He smiles from over a table as he attacks it with a rag. Did he see me coming?

'Hey,' I echo without thinking. Shit. Mission failure. Abort. He finishes wiping down the table and we exchange small talk as he swings around behind the counter and takes my order. You win this round, old friend.

Next week he's ready behind the till and as I walk over I jump my eyebrows at him in greeting. I start to speak but then I realise I've forgotten his name. The hello tapers off and I pretend that's all I meant to say. I don't think he notices. It's impossible to tell. His smile is rigid on his face like it was painted there. I read his name tag as he pulls my change from the till.

Week three he's chatting to someone as they hand over their rewards card. I get in line and I don't think he's seen me yet. Perfect. He hands them their change and their card and I'm stepping forward—

—when someone else calls my name. I freeze. There's someone manning the other till. The barista nods at me as my feet carry me past him. I nod back and turn to the saboteur beaming at me over the counter. 'Hi, Tracy,' I say, fuming behind my smile. 'How's it going?'

This time, though. Everything's in place this time. It's after lunch and I've caught him out in the open. No line, no second till. He's standing there like he was waiting for me, and as his head turns and he sees me coming I've got his name ringing clear in my head and there's triumph in my throat as the syllables well up: 'Hey—'

An explosion of metallic screeching smothers my voice. I look over; everyone does. I'll realise in a moment what my face is doing and clamp my mouth shut, but for now it's hanging dumbly open.

An ambulance is turned over on the road, cars bent around it like driftwood. A scrap of metal cracks into the finger-marked windows and angry fractures erupt where it hit. The glass holds. People yelp but don't scream. A body convulses horribly on the road, tossed by the impact into a position that looks almost like prayer. The chips of windscreen glass scattered over the asphalt make me think of salt. The ambulance howls its siren, petulant.

That's when I feel eyes settle on the back of my neck. In the shocked silence I turn to the barista. He is watching me. The painted-on smile is gone, but for a second I think I see something in his gaze I haven't before. Something glinting and eager. Almost daring.

The body on the road judders out a clothlike rasping sound, like a rag on a tabletop.