Ghost in the (Washing) Machine [pt.4]

I don't bother grabbing a jacket for the ten-foot walk from the apartment entrance to the adjoined cafe, in contrast to my neighbor Tall Guy that is bundled up in a parka and scarf, dusted with snow as he unlocks his door.

"It's cold out there!" he says to me unnecessarily, as I lock my door out of habit, though that seems strange to do since it's currently full of strangers.

"I'm just grabbing a tr—a coffee from downstairs."

He makes neighbor sounds at me and I do the same, and make my way down the hall, past the elevator, and take the stairs.

The stairwell is cold enough I can see my breath, but I hurry down the three flights, through a brief flurry of snow and into the cozy cafe that, I'm going to be frank, was the biggest selling point of this place.

Er—renting point? Whatever—the point is, they have excellent coffee. And treats.

I'm anxious to get back up to my apartment and my face scrunches up when I'm greeted with a line of people already waiting. Not good. The owners are a german couple and they have a slightly different outlook on cafe service than the rest of the entire city. Worth the wait, but you will wait. By my calculations, based on the length of the line and the chat Luthor is currently having with the patron at the front of the line, I'm in for at least forty-five minutes for a latte and a cronut.

I bounce on my feet, eying the neon lights of the bodega across the street through the condensation on the cafe's front window. For the same twelve bucks I spend here I could get treats for everyone, which seems like a better idea now that I think about it.

…or that is what could have happened, if I had made it out of my apartment.

A treat does sound good, I think to myself as I reach for the door handle, but before I can grasp it everything goes fuzzy and I'm falling, falling, falling…

…

Thank you for reading,

HARTWELL