Chapter Text
Florence was making a fool out of herself again.
It was right at the beginning of a budding heatwave that she found herself squeezed into the backmost corner of a cafe two streets away from her apartment. Surrounded by muddy yellow walls painted a lifetime ago, the sound of her inner monologue circled her mind like a toddler at a playground.
“Mommy, mommy!” it whined in a congested, high-pitched tone, chubby, candy-coated fingers sticking to every surface in sight, “Mommy, Florence is being stupid again!”
She squashed the kid under her thumb. Why not? She could. It popped like a goo-filled balloon in her imagination - no bones, no flesh, just a bright, artificial green splattered on the sterile floor of her mind.
No, but seriously what are we doing?
Florence wasn’t the dating kind - not the “meeting up with strangers and seeing how it goes” kind anyway. So she wondered why she was sitting on a half-inch-thick chair cushion and fidgeting with her hair tie in anticipation of someone she had only known for two weeks.
This is so stupid, she thought to herself.
She was just a little over twenty-five years old, and all of the two relationships she ever had happened because everything just sort of fell into place. Nothing was coordinated, except maybe by an invisible hand.
This felt a little sacrilegious, like defying religion.
You want to go out on a date and see where it goes?
Her phone buzzed.
"Hey, I'm almost there - see ya!"
“Oh, shit,” Florence gasped under her breath.
On the other side of the cafe was an old man in a checkered button-up shirt, his nose buried in a newspaper. By the welcome mat was a spotted white cat, curled up and snoring. Its little purrs of contentment melting into the steady buzz of the air conditioner overhead. None of them seemed to have been bothered by Florence, which was a lucky thing indeed.
*
Florence met Amara online while arguing about the discography of a defunct rock band. When she decided to move the debate along in private, she noticed from her pictures that Amara vaguely resembled a young, slightly more Filipino-looking Clea DuVall.
Now, as Amara walked past the large glass window and into The Toadhouse, Florence realized that she was completely mistaken. Her DuVall lookalike had much softer features in person - everything that was sharp in the actress was rounded out in Amara.
Forget that, Florence thought to herself. The shop bell rang as her date walked in and the sleeping cat sprung up, startled from its dreams, and stared momentarily at its new guest. The stranger wore a white tube top, a boxy, unbuttoned brown shirt, and high-waisted jeans.
As she approached Florence’s table, the soles of her sneakers tapped softly on the aged, clay-colored tiles. “Hey. Are you Florence?”
That almost felt rhetorical - nobody else here matched the description Florence gave her: twenty-five, 5 foot 3, brassy bleached wavy hair. “Yeah.” Florence fought the urge to offer a handshake - it was something she picked up from her parents growing up.
*
“Wait, I forgot to ask, what did you do for work again? You said you were in advertising?”
Amara was pretty in a way Florence almost didn’t anticipate. She inhaled sharply and gathered her hair in a ponytail, tying it back with the thin band she wore around her wrist. Amara watched her in silence, and the hem of Florence’s old gray shirt lifted up to reveal a strip of olive skin above her waistband. She pretended not to notice Amara stealing a polite downwards glance.
“Well,” Florence began, tracing a finger around the rim of her mug.
“I’m a writer.”
Amara nodded her head slowly, “Like..books?”
Florence smiled, “No, nothing cool like that. I’m a copywriter. I do freelance work. I guess I do work in advertising, if you think about it.”
“Oh, that pays well,” Amara offered politely, shifting in her seat. She had straight dark hair that barely touched her shoulders, and was fiddling with the strap of a black faux leather tote bag.
“Eh, it’s alright,” Florence shrugged. It did pay well, at least for her lifestyle, but she didn’t like telling strangers about how much she earned. “And what do you do?”
“I’m a teacher.”
In the murky yellow ambience of The Toadhouse, Amara had resembled a dirtbag more than she had a teacher. That was Florence’s fault, mainly - the moment Amara told her she was a “social smoker,” she assumed Amara had the kind of job that didn’t have any special calendar dates.
“Only in social settings,” is what she said, word for word. Despite her best efforts not to judge, Florence pictured her lungs: blackened with tar and dripping with motor oil - like those anti-smoking campaign posters…
Amara was a stranger. She could’ve left nothing more than a vague impression on Florence’s life - the faintest hint of a paw print in the sand during a storm. But something about her - about her faded, stained oak brown lipstick and the way she cracked her knuckles during the emptier parts of their conversation - had Florence stuck to her seat like a lizard on a glue trap.
“You look surprised.” Well, apparently she could read people too. A smile touched her lips. Florence chuckled - three shallow exhales in quick succession. “I just didn’t expect that from you.”
Amara laughed - it was a deep, throaty laugh that plunged down to her chest but didn’t quite reach her heart. “I get that a lot. But I don’t look like this at work, and I don’t smoke there either - can’t be a bad influence on the kids.” My god, she is a mind-reader…
Florence was waiting for her to reach for a case of Marlboro reds, or a deep green box of Hopes, in her bag, but she didn’t. Instead, she folded her hands on the table. Florence took note of the veins protruding on the back of her hands. Old tree roots, she noted to herself. Her fingernails were clipped. Is she hoping to-
The thought was discarded as soon as it occurred. To kiss a smoker would be the death of Florence’s integrity. She’s had two family members succumb to lung cancer in the last decade - she was not going to reward the habit with affection.
Affection. What a strange word. The medley of slow rock ballads they were playing on the speakers behind the cashier concluded. A kind of hush overcame the cafe for a moment. In the newly-formed sea of quiet, Florence barely noticed that her heart - her poor, stupid heart - was forming an attachment to the woman across from her. It was subtle, and tinged with a hint of guilt (and resentment, for the smoking and the general lack of attention) - but it was present. It existed. It lived.
“Well then, what do you look like at work?”
A cough was trying to claw itself out of Amara’s chest when Florence asked her follow-up question. She glanced at the watch around her wrist - brown, weathered strap and all - and watched the seconds tick for a breath or two. “Normal,” she replied.
“Normal,” Amara repeated, now through a toothy smile. Florence nodded, not because she seemed to understand but rather because she didn’t seem to have another response ready.
“And you teach…?”
“Junior high. Social studies. Mostly History.”
Nod, nod.
“Is it…fun?”
“It’s alright. The kids can get overwhelming at times, but as long as you’re patient, they’re the best.”
A twinkle of curiosity sparked in Florence’s dark brown eyes from across the table. Another song was starting up - bassy, upbeat, rhythmically consistent.
Florence had a habit of licking her lips before she spoke, Amara noticed. She did it just then. Amara, whose pre-first date anxiety always made her stomach turn, was a lot more relaxed now. She hoped Florence didn’t mind the smoking - she only smoked when she was nervous, and man could she use a smoke right now.