Chapter Text
"I'm pretending not to see them, and instead I pour the milk."
-Suzanne Vega, Tom's Diner
You were warned by your family and friends that moving to Las Almas would be dangerous. The city was teeming with Cartel activity that only brought murder and chaos. That should have swayed you to change your mind and not relocate afterall. But something was telling you that you would be fine, that opening a coffee shop may do the city some good.
Las Almas originally caught your eye during a family trip as a child. Originally, you were only meant to drive through the city to get to your campsite in the countryside but your car's front left tire caught a flat. That put a damper in your family's plans to say the least. While your father argued on the phone with his auto insurance about getting the tire fixed, your mother took you and your siblings downtown to keep you all occupied.
Mercado Las Almas, a colorful stone archway read as your mother guided you all through. Las Almas' Market. She figured she could pick up something for you all to eat while the car's tire got repaired. As she searched through various fruits and snacks the market had to offer, your eyes wandered. Something about this city was hard for you to ignore, like you were meant to be there. The colorful buildings and traditional architecture left you captivated.
Civillians much like yourself mingled and walked through the market like they were all one big family. Clearly the community was tight-knit, and it showed in how they addressed each other. You imagined what it would be like living there, becoming part of the circle and learning each and every one of these current strangers. The city enchanted you, to say the least.
Alas, your father got the flat fixed and you all were able to make it to the campsite before sundown, but you weren't nearly done with the city. You did plenty of research on the city as the time passed. Keeping up with its politics, frequently checking the real estate, even visiting a handful of times before you decided that this was something you really wanted to do.
You managed to snag a great deal on a café that had a two bedroom flat upstairs. The previous owners had enough of Las Almas and was willing to sell it for dirt cheap all things considered. The building itself was in great shape, and they even left most of their equipment. Being a connoisseur of all types of coffees and teas, you figured this would be easy work. And it was, eventually. People came for coffee and stayed for the atmosphere, and soon you were known by the townspeople as "la señora del café". The coffee lady. You took the nickname in stride and it encouraged you to keep up with the hard work to maintain a healthy and safe environment for your customers. Eventually you earned enough money to hire some employees. Mostly teens who just wanted cash to burn, but you would prefer them spending their time working in your shop than getting involved with criminal activity.
Your cousin on the other hand found a desk job. He moved with you to Las Almas not only to make sure you were okay but because he needed the change in scenery. With the two incomes and a lack of a need to commute on your end, money was almost never tight. Sometimes there were slow months, but you two eventually anticipated them and budgeted preemptively.
The townspeople loved you and treated you as a local despite only moving there as an adult. They protected you, making sure after any particular shootout close to your home that you and your cousin were okay. One time an altercation outside the shop left several bullet holes in your buildings outer wall. By the time you got up and went downstairs that morning to check, men from all ages were patching up the walls and assuring you they'd repaint the area once the cement dried. In return, you served them all lemonade and freshly baked goods for their labor in the sun.
It wasn't always like this, though. Your first few months in Las Almas were tricky to say the least. The townsfolk were wary of you, figuring you were just some hipster young woman hoping to gentrify their area. They talked about you around town, asking each other what they thought of you and if they'd been to your café yet. You still got customers, but it mostly seemed like people trying to size your place up and judge you without taking the time to talk to you. You couldn't quite blame them. They'd seen a lot these past few years what with the Cartel moving in, last thing they need is someone trying to profit off of their town's misery by buying a cheap shop and selling overpriced coffee. Even though that's... not at all what you were trying to do. If anything, your prices were pretty normal if not a little cheaper. They'd know that if they gave you a chance. It left you rather discouraged for a while. Eventually you thought your parents may have been right, and you hated when they were right.
But one fateful day, one of those hopeless days where you thought of going back home, a soldier came in. He had his rifle strapped to his back and wore the typical green camouflage uniform. Removing his shades, he found a seat at one of the many empty tables and you scooped up a notepad and pen to greet him.
He smiled at you. "Afternoon, Señorita."
"Welcome, Señor. Can I interest you in a concha? Do you need a menu?"
"No thank you Señorita, just a shot of espresso will suffice."
You nodded, wilting inwardly considering you spent the early hours of the morning making those conchas. But this was progress! You'd never had a soldier in your shop before, maybe he would enjoy your service and recommend your shop to his friends. Soldiers needed coffee, right?
While the press was brewing his espresso you turned to face him. "What is your name, Señorita?" He asked from where he sat, which was within earshot from the contraption you were working.
You told him, and he smiled. Uh oh, his smile was cute. Everything about him was cute, now that you started to notice. His black hair was slicked back neatly, and he was working on a five o'clock shadow. He appeared to be your age, two years older at max you thought. He had nicely defined cheekbones and jawline, too.
"A beautiful name." He said before cocking his head to the side slightly "Why the long face?" He asked.
You scrambled to come up with an excuse for your persistent frown. "No reason, I suppose I'm a bit sleepy if anything." You lied. You were totally upset because he was your first customer in days and didn't even buy a concha.
He grinned. "A sleepy coffee shop owner?"
You laughed bashfully as you took his espresso from the machine and brought it to him. "Well, when you word it like that it sounds ridiculous. It's not long until I can have a siesta, though." You said, looking upwards at a clock on the wall that read 11:54.
He nodded and thanked you for the coffee, and if he wasn't going to purchase anything else you rung up his bill.
He took a sip and raised his brows slightly. "Ay, this is great. What blend is this?" He asked.
"Oh, it's a blonde roast I had shipped from The States." You answered. Despite being less bitter in taste, the blonde roast actually had a higher caffeine content than most dark roasts.
"If you keep this in stock I may just keep coming back." He joked.
"You'd be my number one customer. My only customer, really." You sighed.
"Don't get much business?"
You looked around at the empty seats, biting back the urge to be sarcastic. "No, not really. A few tourists have come in, but I'm still trying to win the favor of the locals."
"I see. They'll come around once they know your intentions here are good, as well as the coffee."
You smiled weakly but jumped when your timer went off. Dismissing it, you excused yourself and jogged into the kitchen to pull freshly baked bread out of the oven and slice it.
By the time you returned, the man was gone. He left the money for his espresso on the bill you had left on the counter as well as a tip easily twice the amount of the original price. Picking up the money, you noticed he'd written something on the bill.
Cheer up, hermana.
-A
That's when it hit you. You never got his name.