And if that was the case, then why not order up another, so he could be with her again tonight?
3
EDGAR PUSHED OPEN THE door to Caffe Coffee, his every-morning java shop on Chicago Street, halfway between his apartment and work. Melanie couldn’t live without Starbucks’ mocha frappuccino but he preferred the organic Blue Mountain here, flown from a family farm in Jamaica, roasted on the premises, brewed by his favorite barista, Kaitlin, just the way he liked it—strong enough to dissolve paint. He could make the same coffee at home, but the croissants at Caffe Coffee were nearly as good as the ones he’d loved so much in Paris, and the ritual of coming here every morning appealed to him. So did Kaitlin. She was the kind of little sister he would have liked to have, serious and shy, with a dry sense of humor that hit when you least expected it.
Lately, though, he’d been starting to wonder, by the way her light brown eyes lit when he walked in, by the way she lingered to chat even when customers were behind him in line, that she might have ideas concerning him that weren’t exactly sisterly.
Oh, the irony. Kaitlin was sweet, funny and in his league, a student at Marquette University, studying marketing. But even on a normal day, he was so full of Melanie he couldn’t imagine dating Kaitlin. Today…well, he’d considered skipping today’s visit, but he knew Melanie would be late to work, and he’d sit in his cubicle for what seemed like forever, a nervous wreck waiting for her. Better to stop for coffee and delay that agony by a few minutes.
Not that caffeine would do much to calm his nerves.
“Hi, Edgar!” Kaitlin had his coffee ready—he didn’t have the heart to say he wanted half-decaf this morning. “Croissant today?”
“Not today, Kaitlin, thanks.”
“I was thinking about you last night.” She snapped the lid on his cup and rang up the purchase.
“Really?” He wasn’t thinking about her last night.
“I saw that movie you recommended. Cane Toads?” She giggled. “You’re right. It was hysterical.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.” He handed over a five, wishing he could have fallen for someone uncomplicated like Kaitlin instead of beating his head against Melanie’s brick wall for so long. He hoped he’d survive until she showed up at work. His heart was already beating so hard he was afraid it would give out, classic heart attack in the middle of the shop. He should probably pour his coffee down the office sink. “Pretty odd cast of characters, wasn’t it?”
“Yes! Where did they find those people?” She put the change into his hand, her fingers lingering.
He was getting even more anxious. From her touch, from his guilt that he might be encouraging her by showing up every day, from the sudden fear that Melanie might have come in early today and he was missing her. What if she was so eager to see him again after last night that—
“I, um, was wondering.” Kaitlin glanced at whoever was behind him, and leaned forward so her words wouldn’t carry.
Instinctive panic. She was going to ask him out. He couldn’t handle this. Not today.
“Listen, thanks for the coffee, Kaitlin. As always.” He spoke loudly, pretending he hadn’t heard the beginning of her sentence. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Oh, um.” Her eyes dropped. “Yeah, I…okay.”
Smiling, he backed away a few steps, waved and turned, feeling like a schmuck. A prime schmuck. Why couldn’t she have asked him another day, when he wasn’t completely insane to be near Melanie?
Because there weren’t any days like that. He knew he was obsessed; he knew his feelings weren’t rational or smart or probably even sane. No woman had ever affected him like this—okay, not since junior high school, when crazed hormones made obsession the norm. No woman should affect him like this. He understood about balance, about healthy infatuation gone too far; he knew all of it. But try convincing his id.
He left, feeling Kaitlin staring wistfully at his back, imagining the customer behind him already annoyed that his barista was not baristing.
Why Melanie? He’d asked himself over and over again. He didn’t know. He only knew he had a solid-as-rock conviction that she was the woman for him, and nothing, no amount of talking to himself or reading self-help books, had been able to shake it.
After last night…well, this morning, Melanie could, with a single glance, wipe out every long-dormant hope that had sprung ecstatically to life the previous night.
Forget heart attack. He’d have a stroke and be a vegetable the rest of his life.
Luckily, the morning was cool and refreshing, so he could arrive at work a nervous wreck, yes, but not a sweaty nervous wreck.
He pushed through the front door of Triangle Graphics, greeting Anna, the receptionist, who was stationed in front of a huge analog clock.
Eight forty-five.
If Melanie showed up at her usual time, nine-thirty at the very earliest, that gave him forty-five minutes to find out if he’d be the happiest man on the planet or the most broken.
He strode down the short hall to the open room where the graphic designers worked, including Melanie; said good morning to Todd Maniscotto, his and Melanie’s boss; nodded to Jenny, Melanie’s good friend; sat at his cubicle, which was right next to Melanie’s.
Melanie. Melanie. Melanie.
Roughly forty-minutes later, thinking he could expect Melanie any second, he checked his watch to find it was actually roughly five minutes later.
Not heart attack, not stroke; aneurism. One big pop in his brain and done, before he knew what was happening.
He opened the file he’d been working on last night before he went home, ate dinner alone, went to bed and was awakened by the sexiest woman alive sliding into his bed and.
Get a grip, Edgar.
Where was he? Working on a sporting goods catalog for Premium Sports. Today’s challenge: how to make a package of golf tees look like the sexiest product in the world.
Paint Melanie’s picture on it?
Grip, Edgar, remember?
He grappled with the tees and won, rotated a baseball mitt this way and that, changed the text to wrap more snugly around it, all with a few clicks of his mouse.
As convenient and time-saving as computers were, part of Edgar couldn’t help romanticizing the idea of Man at His Drafting Table, like his architect father, pencils sharp, straightedges handy. He’d grown up playing trucks around his dad’s legs, since his father had worked around the clock. Whenever Dad had taken time off, he’d sit blinking at his family in surprise as if he couldn’t quite figure out how they had gotten there.
“Good morning, Ralph.” He heard Melanie’s voice down at the end of the line of cubicles.
Edgar
