“Hey, Where’s Yara today? Doesn’t she usually work Mondays?”

“She’s out sick, but she showed me everyone’s usual orders. So can I have your name, sir?”

He stepped into the shop small enough to be a broom closet, the kind of shop with patrons drawings and fliers all over the walls, and frosted windows, “Shawn, with a W n N,” he chuckles to himself.

“So, that’s Shawn with an extra N got it. You usually have the iced mocha with an extra shot right? I’m not going to lie I’ve been waiting to meet Sean, you know S-E-A-N, Yara told me to give him something” She says looking over the list of usual customers. His face was more recognizable on the picture of regulars on the list than his name. I mean he’s supposed to just walks right in here. I didn’t think it’d be this easy.

He starts, “Yeah, sweet, and an,” they finish together, “extra dash of cinnamon,” Shawn continued, “Wow. Perfect.” Taking a seat in the nook at the corner of the short bar, he could feel the metro rumble beneath his feet. “So what’s your name?”

“Danya, I just started working at this shop. I used to work at the one near Mayachovskaya. You know it? It’s a little bit bigger,” she laughs she begins to make his mocha. “It’s a little warm for gloves isn’t it?”

“I come from far south of here. I’m always cold in this town” With the metro long gone Shawn begins to wonder why his foot is still shaking. Looking down to the dingy floor he sees a hand coming out from under the colorful wooden box he is sitting on. The hand slips a note written in eyeliner into his sock, “Don’t trust her. Trapped here with a bomb. – Yara”

Shawn shrieks upon reading the note, putting Danya on edge. She continues making the coffee. “How much for you to walk away Shawn?”

“Uh, excuse me?” Shawn succeeds at not stuttering.

Without looking up from her process, “How much for you to just leave the coffee shop when your coffee is done as if nothing is wrong. Because the next person to come in here Shawn. That person. He is a mass murderer Shawn. No one can touch him. But me, I work for the people who don’t exist and I’m going to kill him. She’s in the box for her safety. You get your coffee leave and in about 10 minutes the man I need to kill will walk in and bing-bang-boom,” she turns to him and mines, “three shots to the chest.” Danya liked her reflection in the mirror.

“What about the bomb?”

“Ugh… It’s just a briefcase with blinking lights. I needed her to give me the info and I figured a bomb would scare her enough. And, it did! All the way into the box.” Before foaming the hot chocolate, “I have a gun I don’t need a bomb. Plus bombs are soooo messy.”

Waiting in that not silence created by frothing, he thinks to himself, fair enough I guess. “Well, this is for the greater good right? And if so, I guess a free Mocha is plenty,” he asks pulling his feet out of reach as she begins to pour everything together.

“Well I guess I’ve got no reason to stick around aft-,” a silenced shot from Shawn’s torso interrupted, “-er I have killed you.”

Danya dropped behind the counter but died when the second whisper tore through her brain repainting and texturing the back wall of the tiny shop.

Yara whimpers in the box. Sean opens the box. She leaps into his arms tears flowing down her face. He holds her close, “Hey, hey, it’s ok. This part is over now.” Pulling back and holding her head in his hands, “I’ve got to go. And so do you. See you in Caracas. I’ll fly through Helsinki and be there tomorrow. You get there ASAP. Go to the airport now. We’ll buy you new clothes there. Your Go-Bag is in the locker we discussed, I need you to grab it and go, now.” Pulling her back in, “I love you and hopefully this will all be over soon”

Stay! We can escape together and hide out on a little island in South East Asia. I don’t want to lose you. Don’t fucking GO! Yara couldn’t bring herself to say these things as he kissed her and began to pull away.

“See you soon,” he said with a trusting smile, grabbing his coffee and leaving. “Thanks for switching the pictures,” he blows her a kiss and disappears in the crowd rambling by.

Yara pours her stash of Samogon (Russian moonshine) on the floor, counter, Danya for good measure, opens the vent. Stepping out Yara sparks a match, lights a cigarette, drops the match inside, leaves the door slightly ajar, vanishes into the crowd.

Published by Danton Lamar

I grew up in a country that thinks it is better than it is and left because I wanted to know if the rest of the world was as crazy. These are the writings of a man trying to stay sane I'll post a story or poem every Wednesday

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