[429] Rejection

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Akari leaned against her counter made of reclaimed wood in a white tank top and waxed canvas apron. She sipped an umami-rich gyokuro and leafed through a culinary magazine for the feature on her very own 'Japanese Style Cafe', the narrow shop pictured nestled between the bank and bulk goods store. And she tried her best not to cry. Not about the feature, but her whole afternoon. It was just one thing after another, lately. She alone had made the decision to leave, to do this by herself, and yet she felt abandoned. He'd been more concerned about the cat, than anything.

Then earlier today, someone had left in a huff over her refusal to over-water an espresso. He dropped a handful of silver change into a tip jar she clearly kept full of larger coins and folded bills, and so she'd made him fish it all out again, thank-you-very-much. Wished him a lovely day after he'd slammed the glass door on his way out. She kicked the counter a little, and noticed a handsome unflinching mallard, staring. Its emerald head and broad shoulders. How the curve in its beak lent to its expression the appearance of a smirk, almost.

At first she pretended not to notice. Busied herself with the task of wiping down the counter. Arranging paper cups. And it watched her. When a customer arrived, she frowned her way through the preparation of a flat white. Felt the mallard's eyes crawl the tattoos up her arms as she measured the grounds by weight, pressed them into the portafilter, allowed the musculature of her slender arms to ripple tamping the espresso into a perfect puck. When it came to steaming and frothing the milk, she could judge the foam by sound and feel, by the hiss of her wand and the temperature of the stainless steel pitcher, so she could hardly be blamed for meeting the mallard's eyes again. And over the shoulder of a customer who requested a venti, she even risked a smile, as if through the window the mallard understood, but could only hold it a moment before blushing away. It was stupid, the blushing, like a teenager. And yet, alone again, upon making a coffee for herself, she this time braced herself to hold the mallard's gaze. She dipped the steam wand into a swirl of creamy, velvety microfoam, and hardly blinked. And neither did the duck. Even once the drink was made she didn't look away, instead stepped out from behind the machine to be observed, finding herself slowly slipping the left strap of her tank top down her arm. She exposed her left breast, and the drake tattooed there.

The duck moved to the door and presented itself, and she straightened, bit her lip, covered her breast and nodded. But when she crossed the space to invite the duck in, it waddled away.

She would not chase it down, not again. Instead she spent the day cradling her face over the magazine, imagining lines in the article that depicted her lonely lusting after ducks. Still, steam rose from her tea, and palming a tear from her eye she saw the mallard was back again.

Only briefly did she consider putting up a fight, then hurried to the door to let it in. She flipped her sign--*?what on earth are you doing, Akari, these things only end in heartbreak!--*and followed the duck into the back room.