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Leaflitter wasn?t supposed to taste like this. Michael took another tentative sip of the warm drink. Even the smell seemed spot on, it was earthy and rich, with undertones of drying plant life. It was smooth and firm, and the taste on his tongue curled like piles of crisp autumn leaves. Leaflitter wasn?t supposed to taste like this. It wasn?t supposed to taste good. It should probably be muddy, not clean and calming.
The young man looked up to match the obviously pleased face of his employer.
?It?s good?? He smiled questioningly.
All Michael could do was nod distantly ?Yeah, it's nice.? Michael assured him, looking down into the light faun shade of the ?leaflitter? latte.
?Great,? Séan grinned a bit smugly. ?I?ll add it to the autumn board and the coffeemakers then.? He announced. ?I wanted to be sure someone else liked it too. I don?t know about the current name though. ?Leaflitter? doesn?t sound wildly appetizing, does it??
Michael shook his head, setting down the clay mug and returning his hands to his pockets.
Séan Douglas was the center of a dramatic running joke amongst his employees that he was secretly a wizard All of his seasonal menu changes were impossible, and no other coffeeshop knew how to recreate them no matter how often they tried to buy or steal the recipe.
Perhaps the craziest thing was that Mr Douglas wasn?t making a fortune from it. He hadn?t opened up a new location for The Muddy Cup, nor did he charge a high price for the obvious monopoly over his drinks.
?Thanks for trying it out,? He told Michael. ?I hope I?m not going to keep you too long by calling you back here.?
?No, it's fine,? he answered quickly. ?I haven?t got anywhere better to be.?
Except maybe home, but he was happy for the excuse to dodge studying for his midterms.
?Oh that?s perfect then,? Séan said with the confidence of someone who was expecting honesty. ?If you don?t mind hanging around, I wanted to bring up something with you.?
Michael wondered for a moment if he should be worried about something. Mr Douglas was somehow a person that never came off as very intimidating. Even those who worked under him never faced the risk of his anger, instead, you would suffer the wrath of his disappointment, which was remarkably twice as bad.
?What is it?? Michael asked neutrally.
Séan paused, looking oddly nervous. The flicker of betrayed uncertainty quickly disappeared. ?You?re a hard worker Michael, even with school and your sports to balance. I notice you aren?t very talkative, but you're certainly kind.? He explained. ?And I?ve met some of your classmates.? He added under his breath. Séan sat down in a comfortable looking chair in the office, gesturing for Michael to do the same.
?But I have an odd question Michael, have you ever looked into herbology??
?The study of plants??
?Usually medicinal, but yes you could define it that way.? He smiled, resting his chin casually on top of his fist.
?Is that how you make all your drink flavors?? Michael asked.
?Sure,? He shrugged. ?It?s a part of mixology and you know I started off as a bartender.?
Michael nodded. He was convinced that Mr Douglas had just happened upon a combination of flavors able to mimic the odd nooks and crannies of nature. Séan even kept a number of plant filled jars in his homey office, making an odd assortment of blended green hues. He claimed they were for decoration, and they certainly looked that way, but Micahel had noticed the quantities changing subtly from time to time.
?Anyway,? Séan continued, possibly impatient from the brief pause. ?I wanted to know if you?ve ever found any interest in it. I know it?s a strange category to look into, but I?ve found a variety of fascinating aspects to it.?
?Yeah, I guess.? Michael tried. ?I think plants are actually kind of cool. A lot of our units in biology last year were centered around them, but we only learned their adaptations and identification, we never really went into what they did.?
?And you?re taking AP chemistry now, is that right??
Michael hummed in confirmation.
?I see.? Séan murmured thoughtfully. He reached over to a corner of his desk and brought over one of his knitting projects. Unless it was a serious topic, he liked to be fiddling with his hands. Michael knew he barely needed to look down to get the pattern right, but he would often advert his gaze anyway. It was quite disarming.
?I would really recommend that subject for you then. I?m sure at one point or another you?ve heard someone compare cooking to chemistry and they're absolutely right. The plants that go into that mix are like walking chemical reactions. Allergies and drugs make for great examples of how those work.? He rambled, the wooden needles making a pleasant thk thk thk in tune with the dancing red yarn
Michael blinked, taking a closer look at the needles he was holding. One of them wasn?t a needle. He wasn?t actually sure what it was, but it was at least wooden. The stick was longer, and of a much darker shade. It looked much more like a smooth dowel rod, and it couldn?t be the same diameter of the needle. Michael wondered if Séan had lost one, but the mismatched stick looked too refined. It seemed intentional, but it was a weird choice.
His stare snapped upwards. Séan had been asking him something.
?Uh, yeah, sure.? he bluffed.
The older man smiled. It looked like that had been the right answer. ?That?s great!? He exclaimed happily, setting down his knitting again. ?Don't forget that I can always make my schedule more flexible than yours, but I?m glad to offer help for your upcoming project.?
Michael blinked, tactfully deciding not to admit that he hadn't been paying attention.
?Aside from that, I won?t keep you behind any longer.? Séan passed him a small index card with some directions in slanted handwriting. Michael looked it over. It was a location. And a time. He jumped up, moving exit the door Séan was politely holding out for him.
?It would be nice to talk to someone about spel- about herbology,? Séan corrected. ?There?s?.? He trailed off distantly, at a loss for words. ?There?s a lot of things I would like to show you.?
Michael looked behind him at the leaflitter drink he had been asked to taste test. What a weird flavor to get absolutely perfect.
?Curled leaves.? He announced unconsciously.
?Hm?? Séan asked curiously.
?Oh, uh,? Michael flushed. ?You could call the drink "curled leaves",? He said, pointing to the ceramic cup. ?Because you said that uh, "leaflitter" didn?t sound very appetizing.? He offered helplessly.
Séan flashed another easy smile ?I like that.? he nodded. ?Yeah, I think I?ll use that one. Thanks, Michael, I?ll see you later.? He added happily, giving a final hopeful glance in the boy?s direction before turning back into his office.
Michael blinked. He looked down at the index card. He had an itching feeling that he had just been interviewed a second time, but for what he wasn?t entirely sure. He had an even more uncomfortable feeling that it was a test he had just passed.
Hannah called on Wednesday with instructions to meet at the new coffee place that just opened up on Church street
?You?re going to have to be more specific,? I told her.
?You know the one,? she said impatiently. ?The enchanted place. With the muffins that remind you of the seaside, or whatever.?
?That is specific. Is that even a thing??
?It?s the latest fad: things that remind you of other things. Straight after putting halloumi on everything, which I?m sure they also do.?
?Sounds extortionate.?
?Probably. I?ll be there at one.?
She hung up, leaving me to wonder whether she really would be there at one, or whether it was like when she?d said she ?definitely would make it to my birthday? and ?was only really looking at Peckham as a last resort?.
A gust of cold air blows her inside, like a leaf from the street. She glances round and spots me, sat in the corner next to the window.
?Oh, you?re here.?
She takes off her gloves and folds them carefully into her pocket before crossing the café.
?You?re early,? she says, taking the seat opposite.
?No I?m not,? I say, amused.
She?s wearing a red beret and bright red lipstick and a black coat with a high collar. She looks like a film star from the 50s, or literally anyone in North London.
?Cute, isn?t it?? she asks, when she?s done fumbling with her bag. ?You haven?t been here before??
?Maybe,? I shrug. ?All these places look the same. You can?t turn a corner in Dalston without seeing some place with fifty succulents in the window selling avocado-on-toast for £8.50?
The red mouth twitches. ?Yet you?re still here.?
?Because I grew up here,? I retort. ?Because my mum didn?t take a shitty offer when an estate agent turned up wanting to sell her house for a million-?
?Oh did you grow up here?? Hannah?s mouth twitches again. ?I?m so sorry, I had no idea-?
?Alright, fuck off,? I mutter as she smirks.
?All I?m saying is, South is becoming quite trendy,? she says. ?You should see it these days. You wouldn?t recognise it.?
?Among other things,? I mumble.
Hannah purses her lips but doesn?t say anything, this statement having brought us sharply to the elephant in the room: that we have not seen each other in over a year. This reality would not be nearly so uncomfortable, were it not also for the fact that it has not been mentioned for just as long. When Hannah texted asking to meet up, I?d been at the pub with Tony and Khajal. I was so shocked I?d nearly dropped my phone into my onion bhaji.
?Hey there, what can I get for you both??
The moment?s awkwardness is broken by the appearance of a white guy with a luxurious beard, a septum piercing, and a notepad.
?Hi,? I say, as Hannah is apparently too busy looking sullen. ?Do you by chance do the things which make you think of other things??
?But of course,? the server whips out a pen. ?We actually have a new line of autumnal beverages, if you?re interested.?
?Yeah?? I squint at the chalkboard, trying to read the prices. ?What do they do??
?They take you back to a specific autumn in your past. A full-scale recollective and sensory experience, packed with nostalgia and the finest fair trade beans.?
?What are the flavours??
?Cinnamon pumpkin, salted caramel, chocolate hazelnut, peppermint mocha and pumpkin spice.?
?I?ll have the hazelnut, please.?
The server scrawls it down. ?And for Madame??
?Peppermint mocha,? Hannah replies tersely.
The server moves back to the counter. I lean in. ?You can say pumpkin spice, if you like. I?m not going to judge you.?
Hannah flicks her middle finger up. ?Not everything I do is basic, you know.?
?I never said so. I just know you like them.?
?Yeah, well, things change.?
?Clearly,? I mutter.
?Can you stop doing that?? Hannah snaps suddenly. ?Saying shit under your breath, it?s really childish and not very subtle.?
?Sorry,? I say sarcastically. ?I guess it?s been so long since we last spoke, I?ve forgotten how to do it.?
She glares at me. But despite the look her cheeks are flushed with guilt, her mouth slightly parted in something like hurt, and even though I?ve scored a point I feel instantly shitty about it.
?I know I?ve been AWOL recently,? she says after the silence has stretched far beyond breaking point. ?I?ve been busy.?
?I wouldn?t mind if it was just me,? I lie. ?But I spoke to the others and they haven?t seen you either. No one has.?
Hannah?s bottom lip trembles. Concern swoops through me in an instant. Hannah does not betray vulnerability lightly, hides hurt feelings behind walls of barbed wire, manned by gunmen with assault rifles and poisoned darts. It would take a lot for her to let them down; in fact, I can only think of one time she?d really done it.
?What?s going on, Hannah?? I press her ?You move to South London and I don?t hear from you for a year. It?s like you?ve vanished off the face of the earth, like you?re Tony?s old roommate-?
?You don?t have to compare me to a ghost,? Hannah snaps. ?I?m not dead.?
?You might as well have been, for all anyone?s seen you,? I retort. ?At least Tony?s ghost rattled a few dishes from time to time.?
Hannah blows a frustrated breath out her nose. She looks away sharply. Her hand is lying on the table; instinctively, I reach across to grip it.
?What?s going on?? I ask her again. ?I?ve known you since we were eight years old, don?t tell me I don?t know when something?s not right.?
Hannah pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, drags it back and forth. She?s still avoiding my eye. I look down at our hands clasped on the table, steeling myself before asking the necessary.
?Is it Matt?? I ask quietly. ?Is he stopping you from seeing people??
Hannah rolls her eyes dramatically, like it would have been impossible for me to further miss the mark. But she doesn?t actually say anything, confirming I must have gotten pretty close.
I exhale heavily. ?Jesus Christ, Hannah.?
?What?? Hannah demands, eyes flashing back to my face.
?You have got to get away from him. Can?t you see he?s toxic??
?Oh, fuck you,? Hannah retorts. ?You?ve never liked him. Just like you?ve never liked any of the guys I?ve dated.?
?Fucking right, because you date absolute scumbags.?
?You?re exaggerating.?
?I wish I were. I wish I knew why each of your boyfriends turns out to be a bigger piece of shit than the last.?
?Matt?s different.?
?Is he?? I challenge. ?Is that why I haven?t seen you since you started going out? Or why it?s got to be twenty-three degrees in here, and you still haven?t taken your hat off??
Hannah flushes the same colour as the beret. She yanks it off her head, stuffing it violently into her bag.
?There,? she snarls, brushing her hair away so I can see the bruise-less forehead. ?Happy??
?No,? I reply dully.
?If you want to know, the truth is Matthew thinks you?re jealous,? Hannah gushes, high spots of crimson remaining on her cheek. ?He thinks you?re waiting for your chance to...I don?t know..steal me away from him.?
I laugh loudly. ?Right,? I say, bitterness flooding my mouth. ?And Tony and Khaj? Are they waiting for their chance to ?steal you away from him? too??
?I told him it was bullshit,? Hannah says impatiently. ?But let?s face it. You?ve never had a good word to say about anyone I?ve been with-?
?Because they?re all fucking psychopaths!?
?Julian was not a psychopath-?
?He was literally a necromancer, Hannah, he asked if he try to raise you from the dead.?
?Alright, stop,? Hannah raises her palms, voice high-pitched and breathless. ?Enough, ok? I didn?t come here to talk about this.?
I am saved from asking what exactly she did come here for by the arrival of the server.
?Okaaay,? Luxurious Beard sets two large mugs on the table. ?We have one chocolate hazelnut and one peppermint mocha. Enjoy, guys.?
?Cheers,? I say, eyes not leaving Hannah?s face.
There?s a long moment of silence as both of us stare glumly into the surfaces of our coffees. Finally, I break it
?I just want to know,? I say quietly. ?Why you think that all you deserve is arseholes.?
Hannah drops her head into her hands. She cards her fringe through her fingers. When she looks back up, her eyes are raw and exhausted.
?Let?s just...forget about it, ok?? she says tiredly. ?Drink our coffees, have our mystical experience, catch up and move on??
I nod curtly. ?Sure.? I cup my hands around the mug. The ceramic is warm against my palm, almost to the point of burning. The smell rises with the steam, bitter yet sweet, and oddly cloying. ?So...how do you do this??
?Pretty sure you just drink.?
?Makes sense.? I lift the mug to my mouth.
I think it?s the smell that takes me back at first. Or the combination of the smell, the hot liquid with its coils of steam rising, the thick almost treacly melting of chocolate on my tongue. It?s not a hundred percent to my taste ? too sugary ? but then a heavy layer, like clouds or mist descends until it blots out all other senses. It deepens, suffocating our table until in one moment, I can no longer see the coffee shop nor Hannah opposite me ? in another, the coffee shop?s gone, but Hannah?s still here.
Only...it?s not the Hannah of now, with her trendy coat and continental aspirations. But the Hannah I remember, the Hannah of eight years ago. She?s cross-legged on the floor next to a spotty, gangling kid I realise with a jolt is me. She?s wearing a faded Green Day shirt, several sizes too big for her skinny carriage, and football shorts revealing bony knees and scratched-up legs. There are PS3 controllers in both our hands, and suddenly I remember the day in pin-point clarity.
?Dude, are you even trying?? Hannah laughs as an explosion sends my soldier hurtling across the screen.
?It?s because of my shitty gun,? I complain. ?Stop a sec so I can switch.?
?No way, I?m not breaking my stride,? Hannah shakes her head. ?Quit pussyfooting and learn to play.?
I watch myself scowl as the armoured figure faces a plasma canon. Another explosion, Hannah cheers. My side of the screen fades, I throw my controller onto the carpet in self-disgust.
?Bullshit,? I mutter darkly. ?New game, I wasn?t concentrating.?
Hannah titters. As she flicks through the different game settings, I see myself watching her out the corner of my eye. A very familiar pang seizes somewhere in my chest.
?Any plans for Halloween?? I ask casually. ?I hear Tim Keane is throwing a party. We could gatecrash.?
Hannah grimaces. ?A bunch of Jack Wills clones pretending to be drunk on Lambrini and Malibu-coke?? she shakes her head. ?No thanks.?
?Or we could just hang out here,? I suggest, clearly trying not to sound like that was what I really wanted. ?Kill zombies, eat popcorn, etc.?
?You mean like a Wednesday??
?Yo, today?s Friday.?
Hannah laughs. ?True,? she concedes. ?I don?t know, man. I feel like Halloween has been dead since we were kids. Once you hit puberty the magic zaps.?
?There?s plenty of magic if you want it. We just have to go to that old petrol station at the end of your street at midnight."
?You know what I mean. It?s like Christmas. No point after you hit twelve years old.?
?I like Christmas.?
?You would do, with your perfect family,? Hannah says dismissively. ?But for the rest of us dysfunctionals...it?s a Bit of a nightmare.?
I laugh dutifully eyes flickering furtively to Hannah. For a while there?s silence apart from the click-clacking of joysticks and the machine gun violence. Then suddenly the door bangs open, causing me to jump and whirl round for the culprit. Hannah remains unmoving, staring straight ahead at the TV.
An man enters the room: mid-forties, with a grey, unshaven jaw and the sad, decaying kind of body that, while once powerful, has since largely run to fat. He walks straight in without acknowledging us, shoulders slung low and hunched. The atmosphere in the room immediately changes. Beside me Hannah stiffens, a muscle clenching in her jaw.
The man opens the fridge door. There?s a beat, then he closes it. ?Where the fuck is my beer??
Hannah doesn?t reply. The man lopes into the living room, stopping shy of the couch. ?I said, where the fuck is my beer??
His voice is quiet, but it?s none the less menacing for that. Hannah says nothing. On the screen, her soldier is blown to bits by a trip wire. Her eyes remain fixed ahead, ignoring my stare.
?You little shit,? the man hisses. ?You live in my house, you take my beer-?
?I haven?t fucking touched your fucking beer,? Hannah snaps. ?You probably finished it last night, God knows you were pissed enough.?
The man swears viciously. He grabs keys and exists, closing the door with a slam. At once the air feels easier; my shoulders relax as I turn to Hannah. She?s still staring ahead at the TV, gaze fixed and unwavering.
?What the fuck,? I say. "Does he always talk to you like that?"
Hannah doesn?t reply. Instinctively, I reach out to touch her arm. She flinches away.
?Hannah,? I say urgently. ?Is everything ok? With you and him??
She shuts her eyes. A single tear squeezes beneath the lid, slipping down her chin to splash her knee. The sight of it shocks me; I drop the controller at once, my hands darting out to hug her, comfort her, something.
?Jesus,? I say, panic rising swiftly. ?Hannah, are you ok? Tell me what?s wrong, what?s going on? Do I need to call the police??
Hannah shakes her head. There?s no use hiding that she?s crying now. The tears are falling thick and fast, her breath coming out in little gasps. I put my arms around her. She resists at first, stiffening like a board. But at last she eases, turning her damp face into my shirt and clutching my waist. I try to stem the rising tide of panic as her body convulses, shaking with wracking sobs as she grips me harder, and focus instead on stroking her hair, frantically rabbiting bullshit like ?It?s alright? even though I have absolutely no clue what ?it? is.
Eventually, the sea runs dry. Hannah?s body stops shaking, her breathing slows. Not knowing what else to do I rub her back, desperately aware of my heart galloping so hard it feels like it might burst from my ribcage.
After a long while, Hannah turns her face up. Her face is streaked with tears, tiny drops still clinging to her long eyelashes. I thumb them away. Then, without thinking too much about it, I kiss her.
The mist is creeping back into the corners of my vision, clawing its way across the living room until it swallows the space completely, obscuring us from view. I?m suddenly intensely aware of a sharp, bitter smell, sweet yet acrid, overwhelming my nostrils and the back of my throat. The mist parts, revealing Hannah sitting opposite me. For a second I?m unsure I?ve left the past at all due to a crucial similarity ? once again, her face is stained with tears.
My voice has lodged itself in my throat. I force it out, it comes away dry. ?Hannah.?
She stands up. Her face is deathly white, so wet with tears her skin seems almost see-through. She?s shaking violently, hands balled into fists at her side. I stare up at her in shock, grief and guilt mixing as the comprehension sinks slowly over me ? the aching pain brought by the recollection of that one day in October pales into comparison with whatever she?d remembered.
?Hannah-? I start, stumbling to my feet as she grabs her bag and makes to whip out the café.
I chase her outside, ignoring the shouts of Luxurious Beard. She's drawn her coat high up around her face, her arms crossed in front of her like a shield. Tears are flooding from her eyes; she wrenches her gaze away when she sees me.
?Go away,? she shouts.
I grasp her arm, stopping her from tearing off down the street. She swears savagely, struggling to pull away. The October wind snatches at her hair, pulling strands across her red mouth. Her eyes are wide and wild, tiny drops still clinging to her eyelashes like they had eight years ago. And just like eight years ago, I am seized by the sudden, violent, all-consuming desire to kiss her.
I don't. Instead, I pull her into a hug. At once she fights me, fists beating against my back. I ignore them, holding on tight and burying my head between her neck and the high collar of her coat. Eventually, the fists die down ? her hands come up to go around my waist.
We stay like that for a long time. Her shaking subsides, and she moves to crying softy into my shirt. I stroke her hair as I had when we were fifteen, silently cursing every God I can think of. It's an easier thing to do than focus on the guilt gnawing its way through every single one of my guts. It always is, I guess.
?I?ll break up with him,? Hannah says after what feels like an age. ?I promise. I?ll break up with him.?
I don?t say anything, only hug her tighter. A cold breeze stirs the street, lifting brown leaves into the air. They swirl a figure of eight, tattooing a slow sign of infinity before very gently lowering, and settling.
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