Chapter 5: A Cyborg Barista

5
A Cyborg Barista  

The thing about Bodyguards is that they are with you at all times, against all odds, in any circumstance, no matter what.  Unless the Bodyguard wakes up late thinking it’s their weekend.

I slam the car door of my Subaru behind me as I race to the glass door of the coffee shop, and yank the handle.  The door swings open faster than I had anticipated.  A bell rings.

The café: warm, trimmed with dark wood, the air thick with coffee.
Qym stands behind the counter at the espresso machine, her back to me.  Her robotic legs hidden beneath the tall counter, but I know it’s her.  The ends of her ponytail either curled or un-brushed, I can’t tell which.  The strands of her hair collect around the turtleneck of her mustard-colored sweater.

Reason Why I Hate Qym #4:
She is the only human I know who can pull off a mustard-colored turtleneck

She rinses the washcloth in the sink, and glances behind her shoulder, her eyes meet mine.  I keep my gaze a few inches away from her face.

“Hey Domino!” 

She’s not mad at me.  Has she ever been mad at me?  I’ve been mad at her.  A lot.  You only feel hatred for someone you wish to spend time and energy hating.  But, if that person is simply someone you walk to work with, and you spend all your time staring at the sky while you walk, you’ll never notice them. Therefore, you’ll never get mad at them.

Reason Why I Hate Qym #5:
She’s never gotten mad at me.

“Where were you this morning?”  She turns to the front counter, wiping the wet rag back and forth, though there didn’t seem to be much to wipe.  “I missed my walking buddy.”

Walking buddy.

Not bodyguard.  Not friend.  Just walking buddy.  Like a dog on a leash.

“What’s today?”  I ask, instead of answering.

She pauses her counter cleaning and taps her fingers on the surface.  “I mean, it’s Tuesday, but I don’t remember the exact date.  The 25^th, I think?”

I take a step closer, as though the only two people in the café might pause their conversation to eavesdrop.

“How is it Tuesday?”  I murmur. “What about Saturday?  Sunday?  Monday?  What happened to those days?”

“Um,” She shrugs and chuckles, “I don’t know.  Usual Saturday, Sunday, Monday…stuff.  The weekend goes fast.”

I look down.  Her hands are moist and wrinkled.  “Yesterday was Friday.”

She hums. “…No, it wasn’t.”

“Shut up.  Yes, it was.”

“I can pretty much guarantee it wasn’t,”  her voice: apologetic.

I dig my fingers back and forth against the bones of my forearms.  I can’t be this stupid.

“Have you seen me at all in the last three days?  Have I been in a coma?”

“I saw you Monday,” She hesitates, “I think.  I mean, I don’t think you were in a coma.  If you were, I would have found out.  Doesn’t your class start now?”

I cuss under my breath, turning towards the door. 

“Do you want some coffee?”  She calls back.

Yes.

“No.”