For someone like Roxie, she sure spends money like she has a sugar daddy.

Going from stall to stall at this mall, she treated me to a lot of branded dresses, with each having a heavier price tag than the other. I sincerely worry this woman will drain her card to nil if she keeps spending like there’s no tomorrow.

“Geez, girl, you’ve spent like . . . 60 dollars for these dresses. I don’t think I could even wear them all for the whole four years that I’ll be here.”

“Oh, honey, your sugar mommy wants to treat you, so let her be, ’coz her money is just as free as a dove.” I chuckled at her words.

“Don’t you have anything to save on? Like insurance, a house, or a car?”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “I have everything I want at the moment, and besides, 60 dollars is 60 cents in my language.”

Well, okay then, I told myself. Suit yourself. I let out a sigh of defeat.

I was caught off-guard and almost stumbled to the floor when she stopped in her tracks. The mountain of shopping bags didn’t help, so I put them on the floor, only to see a black stall with a coffee maker at the counter all behind closed glass walls. The sign seems familiar. Wait, is that—

“Welcome to The Espresso Machine,” Roxie enthusiastically introduced. “The owner is currently here, so you could send your papers here.”

The about 100 square meter studio area is mostly black in color, with the minimalist logo of the company smack right at the L-shaped counter. The kitchen divides the public space with the things that the public will not want to see, yet their literal espresso machine is at the very side of the counter, its back against the wall. The black pendant lights are distributed at the counter, lighting the counter alive. The recessed lights, meanwhile, light the kitchen since the ceiling is just within man’s reach. The walls are designed like chess boards at an angle. The black squares in the design are elevated from the actual wall. Chairs are aligned to the side with tables matching the elegant accent.

“Well—” Before I could even make my sentence, another voice mixed with the air.

“Hey, Roshan! Is that you?”

Confusion is swirling in my head already. I know I heard that voice somewhere. It’s so fucking familiar, and the thought of who owns that voice shivers me out cold, down to the very bottom of my spine.

“Fuck you, Kaizer! I’mma rate your store a zero out of five if you keep calling me that!” I snapped out of subconsciousness as Roxie flipped the finger.

Holy water of Christ; the coincidence is getting scary. Of all the people I could bump into, why did I need to be someone I tried to forget? To be more than honest, I want to run as fast as I can, as far away from that voice.  Yet as the tall, manly figure stepped out of the doors that divide the café from the public view, I couldn’t help but be cemented to the ground, immovable, as I tried desperately to not let all those memories I have hidden in the safe spill out.

His gracefully chiseled physique was enveloped beneath a white sleeve under a black apron. Stray strands of his messy charcoal hair tease out from the hair net he is wearing, defiant like he always is. His obsidian-colored mask snugged the whole of his nose and mouth so well that it felt like the mask was tailored to fit him. His big eyeglasses perched aptly at the tip of his nose, lenses peering into his sharp, auburn eyes. His cross-shaped solitary black earring was visible on his left ear, speaking fashion and masculinity.

Kaizer Woodsworth. He is indeed that man; he never was different from what I have imagined.

As his eyes met mine, his confused gaze shifted to a worried look. “A—Arthur?” Kaizer stammered. For what reason, him being uncertain about saying my name is none of my business. What business I now have is how I respond to the man who bullied me nonstop and outed me to the public because my fight-or-flight mind is literally wrecking the balls in my brain.

It took all in me to blurt out, “Hi, Kaizer; we met again,” right smack at his face. Honestly, it came out with a bite of sarcasm more than a typical greeting. I inhaled anxiously and held a fake smile on my lips.

With three steps, he tried to approach my direction, yet I gestured for him to stop. “I . . . will be leaving soon, so it’s alright.” I let a bit of laughter in me. “I just . . . stopped Roxie and her mountain of shopping bags by.”

I went in and was about to put the bags on the side of the counter when a force held my hand. “Oh, Kaizer, could you please, just this once stop—” My clenched fist was about to meet his face, but I froze in place when I found out Roxie was the one holding my hand. “Oh,” I gazed into the unknown, not wanting to meet her eyes. “I apologize. I’ll be taking my l—”

“Nah-ah; no one’s leaving until we get that head of yours cooled off by Kaizer’s matcha coffee.”

Well, I guess it’s just matcha coffee.

In front of me is a Kaizer Woodsworth making one of the most expensive yet perfectly crafted matcha coffees . . . he who I have sworn as my arch-nemesis. How ironic.

No matter how bitter I am to him, I am sincerely amazed by his craft.

The way he uses the spring whisk to beat the matcha powder (which his flyers claim to be from a high-quality Japanese green tea farm) in five tablespoons of hot water on a big measuring cup is indeed professional.  He then shoved a quarter cup of milk into the matcha mixture before beating it again. He opens a jar and puts three tablespoons of sand-like coffee beans in the espresso machine between the liquid mixing and tossed water in the pressurizing can before heating the water.

He then prepared the mug where the coffee would be transferred, coated it with caramel sauce, and poured it in ice cubes till it was half-full. Just in time, the espresso machine made a beeping noise, signaling that it was almost time for the water to shift to a cup. He gently transferred the matcha mixture into the mugs and filled the rest with coffee made on the espresso machine until it was near the rim. He put the mugs on a big platter and served them to us at the counter.

Did he take classes to master this craft?

He then removed his face mask, only to see his vermillion lips, which could have been blessed by the god Adonis. He is Adonis in the flesh, any girl and gay would say.

I may applaud his mouthwatering physique, but when it comes to attitude, he should sit down and shut his mouth up.

“Two servings of matcha café latte,” Kaizer said in a calm voice, which got me off-guard. “I hope you enjoy the coffee.” A smile etched between his lips.

Kaizer was never a calm person during my junior high school years. Being the most feared bully that he is, he is prone to sudden bursts of anger. Whether it is a disagreement with other people, a perceived slight, or just something that blocks his way, or even if you’ve done nothing wrong, actually, if you get into the bad side of Kaizer, he’ll surely send you to heaven with his fists. Having him around is like playing with fire and getting burned when the fire touches where the wind blows. Those who, unfortunately, touched the fire received bruises of plum in their skin, and trauma echoed in their heads. How unfortunate to be one of those who was glazed by the fiery hands of a Woodsworth.

He was the tempest incarnate.

With this in mind, it is of great astonishment that I have seen what could possibly be a glitch in the matrix. Am I seeing the calmer version of the fire . . . or the calm before the storm?

As I sipped my drink, Roxie twirled the contents of hers. “My, Kaizer, your work is as perfect as ever,” the ever-impressed Roxie said. “Art would be very much interested to work here with this kind of quality.”

“Like always, Roshan.” Whew, where did that strong wind come from? Oh, never mind; it’s just from this son of a bitch in front of me.

She flipped her middle finger as she sipped a drink of her matcha coffee.

“It’s Roxie,” I corrected, and I gave him a glare. Such didn’t faze him, and instead, he let out a smirk.

“Relax, Art. I’m just kidding. I’ve been doing that to her like a few times.”

I let out a sigh of defeat as I failed to challenge his bigotry. I find myself resting my head on my clasped hands. “You still are the same Kaizer that I have known since junior high. How disappointing. And here I thought you were completely different from what I’ve used to.”

“Ooh, drama; I love this.” Roxie’s eyes twinkled in excitement for what would come next. She sipped her coffee intensely in curiosity.

“Roxie, have you remembered what I just said before at the stairs?” I asked.

“About the boy who outed you in junior high?”

“Yep,” I said. My eyes peered in her direction, and I let out a smirk. “Wouldn’t it be of great drama to find out that the man in front of me right now”—I sighed—“is the same kid who outed me in junior high?”