I used a mark up writing app so when you see *this* think this.

I bit my cheek chewing my breakfast bagel. The shock of it all woke me from the in-between my mind found itself this morning. My blood mixed with cream cheese and bagel bites. A quick swing of coffee and the sting took me out of the fog of my morning hangover. The café was brimming with similar zombies as I, and the usual suspects at 8:30 call were lining up. The baristas were chemically peppy and in a few moments the caffeine in my body would bring me there. I could smell burning bits of toast and coffee beans and hear the burr grinders whirling. 

I sat on the untreated pine, sort-of-scandianvian built-ins that framed the irregular space of the cafe. The building was, on paper, a bio-tech laboratory, a massive lecture hall, and one of three on campus locations for a hyper-local coffee cartel.

After three weeks of *this*, I wised up to the fact that *this* was my routine. I woke up, hoped I packed everything I needed for the day, and headed to Yalis for caffeine and people watching. The triggers that pulled me into Yalis were ontologically similar to those experienced by an addict. Sugar, carbs (more sugar), and caffeine were all I craved in the same way one yearns for a schedule I. 

I pushed through the considerable trauma my mastication caused my cheek and decided that I should review my day's schedule. My notebook was perched in my backpack, thankfully. I cracked open my lifeline and reviewed the major plot points of the day.

[insert graphic of schedule]

I scanned the page and confirmed that I was, indeed, sitting at Yali's between 7 and 9:50AM. My 10AM was looming and, after that, my 11AM. I had a break at 1 and knew I would need to find lunch at some point. I was always starving after my classes. I made a note that I should fit in a workout. I reached into my backpack's outer pocket and found my almost empty Pilot G-2. The process of plotting out my day was one of my many ways I coped with the almost limitless supplies of anxiety this school produced in me. The act of etching into a notebook what I knew by heart at this point in the semester gave me a feeling of control that almost quelled my mind's turbulence. I added the bullet: GO TO GYM 1:45-2:15PM and--

"Excuse me, may I borrow a pen?" I heard come from my left. The voice was smooth and welcoming and it was oddly chipper for a Friday morning.

I shot up from the dotted pages of my notebook to see him. This gorgeous man with a peculiar complexion and soft green eyes. He had an angular face and chiseled jaw. This hair was a mystery of loose curls--*black* curls--on top of his head. His lips looked dark almost sunburnt, or how those mountain climbers starved of oxygen appear in Everest documentaries. He was wearing a white t-shirt with an embroidered heart and jean jacket. On anyone, the ensemble would read basic, but on him it was iconic. Am I supposed to know who this is?

"Sorry what?" I mumbled. How long was I staring at him?

"A pen," he relied smiling. "Can I borrow a pen?" he repeated.

"Oh I only have the one," I responded, gesturing towards the pen in my hand. His eyes never left mine. My mind wandered and I was suddenly three years into a relationship with this model sitting next to me. That he was asking for a pen was a thinly veiled cover to jump start our relationship I thought. 

"We met at Yali's one morning in March," I would tell my friends before his introduction. 

This was our meet cute. We would tell my parents the details of our relationship, edited for content and homosexuality when they came to visit us in Cyprus during the summer months. There he would propo--

"Oh okay that's fine. No worries," he replied. His expression was light and detached.

"Actually, you can just have this one," I said out of impulse. I handed him the pen. A deep primal urge made me continue the meager conversation. The more samples of his voice I heard, the greater fidelity his construction would have in my dreams.

"Are you sure?" he shot back. His expression was guarded, like he he knew I was bluffing.

"Yeah I don't need it for my classes. I take notes on my computer any way and it gives me an excuse to buy more pens, so win, win." Fucking help me.

His eyes narrowed like he knew my entire explanation was a lie, a slight smile pursed his lips apart. The abhorrent lying and oversharing was not lost on me. I hand wrote all my notes and I didn't have time to buy a new package of pens. None of my professor's had a technology policy beyond requiring doctor sanctioned accommodation to type during class. This man's appearance was intoxicating to the degree that I was without control. My brain was highjacked and I was at the will of his words. 

*Why did I just say win win?*

"Win, win indeed," he said. I added 'win, win' to our list of inside jokes--a list with only one entry. God what the fuck is going on! He took the pen and clicked it with his thumb. Our conversation was over, but he remain planted in the seat next to me. I didn't even noticed that I was sitting next to him. I didn't reply, but merely smiled. It was all I could do, honestly.

Outside the entrapment of his gaze, I tried to recall if I had seen his face before now. I always sat on the far side of the cafe and during my protracted bouts of unfocused studying, I made sure to catalogue a regulars. The buddy system was mutual. I was apart of the cafe's tapestry. I was one less person to worry about the same way Monica Chen by the door and Possibly Larry by the napkin bar were.

I fixed my gaze to the pages of my notebook. Now having nothing to continue to adding complication to the page, it remained unchanged. I use this focus as a cover to get another peak at this man who radiated a certain magnetic energy. My arm closest to him was humming, which had never happened outside a bad reaction to THC sophomore year. This humming felt like it was emanating from him and infecting my body. I was trapped. I used the extent of my peripheral vision, cramming my eyes to the edges of their sockets. He was *still* there, humming away to a song in his head, tapping along to the beat with my pen. I wondered if he was aware of the attractive pull I was experiencing--my arm unconsciously moved a half inch closer to his. It was then that I noticed the cadence of his tapping skipped a beat responding to my all-of-the-sudden movement. I watched as he began to tap the fingers of his right hand in a rippling motion starting with his pinky. It was not certain, but it appeared like with each successive round of tapping he marched his arm closer to mine.

Suddenly I could feel a wave of heat flash over my entire body. The room was 70 degrees, but I was sweating. He *was* moving his arm. This *was* a meet cute. I was absolutely certain of it. My pulse quickened. A droplet of stress sweat slid down the length of my body. It was cold and embarrassing. I had to talk myself down from the ledge. 

I blinked my eyes and looked for my breadth in that room. I realized I was hyperventilating. The tension of the moment made each successive breath more shallow than the last. I had to command myself to inhale as deeply as I could. The rush of cold air in my lungs and familiar expansion of my thoracic cavity broke his spell over me and whipped my hand away from his. I stopped paying attention to him altogether and tried to play off my random twitchy movements by packing up my things. The experience altered my perception of reality--I could not even begin to understand what had just happened to me. I saw everything unfolding and it was too late.
 
My abrupt wrenching of notebook knocked my empty bagel plate into my glass of iced coffee. The condensation pooled, elevating the cup mere millimeters from the surface of the table. It slid with the grace of an Olympic curling stone right off the edge. The soft wood flooring absorbed enough of the impact to forestall any shattering; however, the cup then bounced with a new trajectory raining coffee over my legs and backpack. I lunged for the cup in a delayed response to its free fall. The table slid effortlessly against my body's pushing it. My head was on a direct course for impact and the austere, minimalist table collided with my bow bone. It hurt like hell. I let out a thundering involuntary gasp and fell to the ground. I landed in a puddle of coffee and a week's worth of crumbs and a fork. A fucking fork impaled my hand. At this point, I screamed. Anyone who tried to ignore the pathetic display before shot a glance in my direction. I lifted my trembling hand and through blurred vision saw the fork levitate. It could have well been Larry's hand because I was no longer in my body.

I sat up in shock, rejecting that everything before me had transpired. And hot liquid ran down my face and into my eye. I notice that my left eye was burning red and then I tasted the blood. It was remarkable clear and untainted unlike during my breakfast carbs. And then a random girl, another regular, snapped me out of my delirium. She was saying things because I could see from my other eye that her mouth was moving, but her words were at the end of a long tunnel. I continued to stare and say nothing only closing my mouth involuntarily when blood dripped from my upper lip.

"Do I take it out or leave it in!" I finally heard her say. She was screaming to a barista who was on the scene with her. A crowd of people formed us. I was on full display. The embarrassment was bearable as I had yet to reentered my body. Someone else was handing my bunches of cocktail napkins and gesturing that I should apply pressure to the gash above my eye. I mimed their action and receive a garish, "GOOD JOB!". Then the regular girl started staring at me with intensity and nodding. I mimicked her motions like I had done before. It was all going smoothly, my repetition. I could not form complex thoughts at this critical juncture so relied on my ability to emote. Then she pulled the fork out...

I regained consciousness first to an intense burning, throb in my hand. Then my eyes flicked open to splashing water on my face. I was in the bathroom with the same trio of helpers. The Barista, the Regular Girl, and Napkin Guy workshopped how best to proceed.

"Oh thank god he's back. Hey there can you hear me?" Regular Girl uttered. "Nod if you can hear me, okay?"

"No he can't nob. What if he's concussed?!" Barista said.

"I'm fff," I managed to utter. An intense headache consumed my attention.

"He totally has a concussion. We can't let him fall back asleep," Napkin said.

Someone new entered the bathroom. I was everyone's greatest hour.

"UCPD is here and they have a cart," the someone said.

"Finally," Napkin shrugged. I could tell the novelty of being a first responder was gone for him. He was the first out the door and held it open as Barista and Regular supported to the exit.

A squadron of UCPD officers were in the cafe. The crime scene was in the process of being cleaned. The blood volume impressed me, honestly. My backpack was in the hand of one of the officers with sunglasses and a ponytail. Officer Pony approached me with indifferent concern.

"Hi. Evan is it?" Officer Pony asked.

The my entourage was supporting me and Barista poked me to reply.

"Yeah?" I eked out.

"Hi, so you hit your head pretty hard and we need to check you out, get you okayed by medical professionals. Are you on SHIP or your parents plan?" she said with didactic enunciation from years on the force.

"What?" I said back. Her words were meaningless. I started to drip again from my hand.

"He's concussed. We should just take him to the stadium," Napkin  spoke from intimate experience.

"The stadium? No," Officer Pony scoffed.

"Look it's closer and they can do a concussion protocol on him. He need stitches too," Napkin retorted.

"We can take him," assured Regular.

The officers deliberated and then handed my backpack to Napkin.

"Alright, Nathan can give you a lift," the officer said pointing  to her confidant parked outside the cafe glass front.

Officer Nathan was in driving a 'CAL BEARS' branded electric flatbed and wearing a lemon yellow shirt. He waved on her cue. I was beginning to find my footing as my crew approach the Cal Cruiser. They loaded me onto the flat bed sitting me upright making sure to hook my arm around the metal frame of the cabin. Napkin got into the front seat with the Bear Walk employee and instructed him where he was carting me off to. Barista bit his lip and gave me a look like he was very much over accompanying me on this journey. Regular rolled her eyes, like she was annoyed that he broke their unspoken oath to see this through.

"I have class in like 10 minutes...," Napkin said. He reached up with his hand and scratched the back of his head. He was wearing his apron and the name tag read: Gabe.

"You're good dude. We got this," said Regular. She got into the back of the truck with me. 

Regular held onto a hole in the bottom of the flatbed and made sure I was secured. I waved goodbye to Gabe as the vehicle went careening around the bend towards Gayley Road. A flashing light affixed to the top of the vehicle signified the importance, and general absurdity, of this particular Bear Walk.

Noticing I was nearly lucid, Regular asked, "So how the hell did all this happen in the first place?"

I looked at her trying to parse through the events and find their appropriate words, "Well I was gave this guy sitting next to me my pen," I finally managed to say. The morning air was liberating my words. 

"Who?" she said looking at me with concern.

"I don't know his name. This really attractive guy. I don't know. He asked for my--

"Yep I knew it," Napkin said interrupting my languid speech. "He's totally fucking concussed."



-END


So there you have it dear readers. I glimpse into what could have been the launch of my successful YA (LGBT) (not directly in site when you first walk in) Barnes and Noble experience.