White dress.
Silk.
Two words. One deadly moment of my life. A fate I am sealing away–forcefully. My hands tremble as I hold the bouquet. Red streaks lines my vision even though it shouldn't. Why am I here?
Why did... I agree? "Miss Khan?"
Do I respond? But I do. "Yes...?" I say, voice raspy, barely above a whisper.
"Does it fit?" A woman in her 60s asked me. I snap back into reality. He might be listening and I should put on a show. For now.
"Yes, It's.... Perfect," I replied, catching a glimpse of dark irises boring into my soul. He's the darkness I didn't need.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐
Two weeks ago.
Two weeks before this wedding, I had been someone no one knew. Langston. That should be my last name or was it? I didn't think I was tied to someone this dark. Or someone who'd awaken something within that range.
I was headed to work today as usual, at a cafe. Well I know it as a cafe but to many it's Starbucks. The only job I have right now.
Although I miraculously survived an accident and that accident? I don't remember—or at least blurry pictures flashing through my mind. Through therapy, it hasn't resurfaced.
My coworker rushes over to me and latches onto my arm. "Hot tattoo in suit alert," she hisses into my ear, and nods towards the seat where this person is now occupying.
He is hot like she said, but I'm not into him like that. Not in the fucking least.
The entire day except the one time he didn't come up to order and sat there, staring at me and back at his newspaper. "Are you the new hot commodity, I didn't know about?" she asks, the same coworker from earlier. We clocked in to work together. And it was our decision.
As I worked on his order of espresso and pistachio cake (and no starbucks never sold those in the first place), I can't help but gaze at him from time to time. He didn't get up and run yet. Is he really fine waiting like this?
I wrote his name on the cup, and I did tell him multiple times there is no such cake as the one he wanted–my gaze locked on the stupid cup.
Dante Romano. I've seen names that are Italian, and this seemed to be no big deal anyway. A gasp came from behind me and so I turned, "What?"
"No... What the hell? No way.... He's the one at this Starbucks?" she gasped again.
This was getting annoying–like nails on a chalkboard. "THE DANTE ROMANO?"
A few heads turned our way. I gently placed the cup down and twisted to face her. Placing both arms on either of her arms I shook her hard. "You are delusional, okay?"
Shaking her head she said again, "We are serving literal mafia royalty!"
Before she squeals my eardrums into deaf world I shut her up with my palm. "Don't you dare!"
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐
Would it be possible to be pissed of seeing him all the time, and ordering the same thing in disguise of being near you? Today was the week after last, and small tiny specks of white were falling outside.
I smile at each customer that comes through and shoot a glare at Dante whenever possible. He was impossible to shake off, and somehow through this encounter I found my way to the altar–where my life turned 180 degrees. Completely from being so bleak and boring to a fun adventure.
But that didn't happen yet, did it? Because this was one week before. He grabbed my arm as I sat his order down on his table–the grip tighter than it should be.
And the same order too. Is this an excuse for him to see me or does he love pistachio cake and espresso?
"Listen.... I know your last name isn't Langston..." he said into my ear, tightening his hold on my arm—a threat hiding under that statement.
It was low enough for me to hear and no one else could pick up on it. Or maybe he knew something I didn't.