Olive absently tugs on one of her curls, her gaze fixed on the familiar coffee stain adorning a round oakwood table at Elma’s Brew. Like a cloud, she studies the stain’s form, hoping it will morph into something familiar, something that might ignite her creativity. Her mind races in idolization of her predecessor. 

What would it have been like for you to sit at this table… maybe with someone?… and they said something funny. Maybe in reaching to catch the eruption of laughter, you knocked your glass just enough for it to splash一but not spill over. Your laughter was so explosive that you never noticed the small puddle start to dry as the setting sun’s rays soaked up its vapors, leaving a shadow behind. That moment of joy; forever stained…no…ingrained in the wooden fibers of a small table.

With the page still blank, Olive’s next sentence waits patiently behind the flashing cursor. She doubts that another cup of coffee will help either. The thing about deadlines however, is that they show no mercy, regardless of her struggles to craft yet another mundane article on a predictable celebrity breakup. It seems that deadlines are utterly oblivious to her complete lack of passion for the task. It is already the beginning of fall again, meaning she has been working for this magazine for longer than she anticipated.

CelebSecrets Weekly was only ever supposed to be temporary. She has no desire for the magazine and is fairly certain people use it as cat litter. She knows this because she does precisely that. 

They publish one dreadful story after another, and in a ritualistic sense, she purchases a copy from the bodega across the street, forces herself to read it (trying not to gag), and then tears it into pieces over her cat's litter box. She chuckles to herself. 

What a miraculous circle of life. 

Every day seems to drag on like this. Olive walks downstairs to Elma’s Brew from her apartment above, orders her usual toasted sesame bagel and black coffee, and claims her regular spot at the table adorned with that indelible stain. She favors the table because no one else ever seems to sit at it, tucked away in the darkest corner of the shop. It’s as if its owner is both embarrassed by it’s existence but too attached to replace it. 

So, each day一even on this lovely Saturday一the worn-down table beckons to her, and she sits there, ready to write (or not to write) her next piece. She grunts mentally criticizing her writer’s block. 

Fuck, Olive this shouldn't be so hard! This content is elementary compared to the worlds you create in your spare time. The story should write itself! 

The tug on her curl tightens in frustration as her inner voice takes over.

I have the notes so why can't I put them together? Why can’t I just do my job and sell the reader on the idea that they are a part of something exclusive, something opulent, and elite? Because that’s all they want right?… to feel “a part of it all”? They see fame and thirst for just a taste. My purpose is to fuel their covetous minds. So why can’t I just…

A twinkle of doorchimes interrupts her thoughts, each note reverberating off the shop walls as Olive notices the sun beginning to set. Normally, doorchimes in a public coffee shop would blend into the background, but this place doesn't see many customers past 6pm. In fact, the shop will be closing soon, and it will be time for Olive to start her nightly routine. Still, the sight before her makes her breath catch. 

Through the open door, the setting sun casts a brilliant halo around a tall woman entering the shop. Like an angel, there is a majestic stillness to her movements. She surveys the small space before stepping inside. A subtle hint of jasmine wafts through the stale air. Her gestures are fluid as she approaches Elma at the counter and bestows a warm smile upon the bewildered shop owner.

"Hello," the woman greets Elma with a velvety voice that is both soft and commanding. 

Assignment and coffee forgotten, Olive can’t help but watch the exchange. Everything about this woman, from her hair that reaches for the heavens to her statuesque frame holds Olive’s attention captive

Her smooth brown skin is luminescent in the soft glow of the shop. She is dressed from head to toe in a rich evergreen, adorned with countless pieces of gold jewelry. 

The billowy fabric of her jumpsuit and matching trench coat ooze elegance, while her heeled boots feature a striking snake-print pattern and golden steel toes. Her vibrant presence seems out of place in the humble coffee shop, yet every object she graces with a glance seems to bask in her radiance. Even Elma fumbles over her words as she replies, "H-how may I help you, hun?" 

The woman smiles warmly before continuing in an accent that Olive can't quite place, "May I order whatever pastries you have ready and a cup of lavender tea?" 

"Why, uh... sure!" Elma scurries behind the counter to where the display case holds a few rejected raisin muffins and a solitary crescent roll. She carefully prepares the pastries and fills a cup with hot water, dropping a lavender tea bag in before sliding both over the counter. Her modest blush deepens as she nods (almost bows) to the woman in response. 

"Lovely. Thank you dear." the woman responds, her eyes sparkling with genuine warmth as she accepts her order. Edna's wrinkled cheeks flush further with delight, and she turns to head back to the kitchen to begin closing up. 

As she departs, the woman’s eyes scan the room again before locking with Olive, still sitting in the dimly lit corner. Their eyes meet, and Olive quickly realizes that she has been openly starring. She clumsily averts her gaze in embarrassment, closing her laptop and attempting to stuff it into her bag. In her haste, she knocks over her now-cold coffee, sending it spilling across the floor. 

"Great, just great!" She murmurs to herself. 

She follows the spill to the floor, looking around for napkins. She freezes as she notices the reflection of a blurred figure in the coffee puddle. Olive looks up to find the statuesque woman towering above her. With her so close, Olive can't help but notice that she is at least 5'8" without heels. With barely 5 feet to her name, Olive shrinks a little more. The scent of jasmine in the air around them mingles with notes of vanilla and cinnamon.

"Here," the woman says, handkerchief in hand. "Let me help."

Olive attempts to reach for the cloth, but the woman crouches down to wipe the spilled coffee herself. Again, Olive freezes, uncertain of how to react. 

This woman clearly exudes a level of class that I couldn't even begin to approach. One of the many rings on this woman’s left ear could probably pay off most, if not all, of my student loans. 

With that thought in mind, Olive forces herself to speak. 

“Please don't... I mean, thank you, it's okay!” she stammers, trying again to grab the linen from the woman. However, her attempt is unsuccessful, and she accidentally grabs the woman’s hand instead. 

(This is where my brain is supposed to work…) 

Olive’s mind remains blank as a jolt of electricity, unlike anything she's ever felt, courses up her arm and envelops her body. She pulls away, shocked (for lack of better words), and inspects her hand for any damage. Olive knows this can't be the “spark” people talk about in movies — it feels more like touching a live wire. Continuing to inspect her hand and flipping it back and forth in confusion, she finds nothing out of the ordinary. Before she can dwell further on the sensation, her attention is once again drawn away.

“Ehem,” the woman softly clears her throat, and Olive looks up to find herself captivated by deep brown eyes. They swell with a depth of sincerity and mystery that has Olive transfixed.  “My apologies for that.” She stands. “Must be the electricity in the air.” She glances outside. “You know, it’s about to rain.” 

To Olive’s prior knowledge, there hadn't been rain in the forecast or a cloud in the sky all day. However, just as follows the woman’s gaze out the window, storm clouds flood over the city, lightning strikes, and rain begins to pour. The windows blur with raindrops, making the city outside appear painted. Olive is still kneeling on the floor when barely a moment later, she hears the door chime again. She pulls her eyes from the window to respond to the woman or thank her, but she is gone. Olive looks around the shop in confusion but Elma’s voice startles her out of her haze.

“What a lovely young lady!” she coos, wiggling her eyebrows.

Lovely doesn't begin to scratch the surface of her essence. 

Olive smirks and rolls her eyes. She rises, gathers her things, and makes her way to the front exit, offering parting words as she leaves. “Goodnight. Lola El”

Her little neighbor and shop owner waves her off with soft mutterings in Tagalog.