Chapter 5

The large banner unfurled from the top of the thirty-story building. It hung in the middle of the night, flapping in the wind. It read:

*Jean's Coffee — Grand Opening Tomorrow — from 9 a.m. ☕*

Jean was pleased with herself. She clapped in satisfaction and hoped the wind wouldn't pull it down anytime soon.

"All right, I should get the café ready."

She looked at the stars once more. She had never realized they were so bright. There had been no stars to gaze at before the event. The city's pollution and bright lights would never have allowed it.

She stood there, motionless, admiring them for what seemed like forever. Then she glanced at the balcony of the flat across the street, where a certain person lived. The balcony was empty, and she could barely make it out in the moonlight.

"I hope he'll come."

She took her backpack and went down all thirty floors, but she was used to it by now. By the time she reached the café, dawn was breaking.

The place seemed almost complete, like an actual café.

Large potted plants stood in various spots, with golden bars decorating the bases of the pots. Yes, actual gold bars from the bank's vault. The floor was made of the original tiles, with no prospects of replacing them anytime soon.

Oak planks covered the base of the wall, followed by a tapestry of banknotes, and then beige paint all the way to the top. The place had large glass walls that let in a lot of light.

She took out the few tables and chairs she had and arranged them neatly. They were simple, cozy, and suited the new vibe of the place. She put on some jazz on an old vinyl player. It sat on the counter, connected to the power generator under the table.

Then she turned on the coffee machines. These weren't simple coffee machines like the one at home, but large espresso machines. She'd worked hard to find them—well, by breaking into another coffee shop, to be more exact. One she knew was insured with her bank. Hopefully, she would never have to deal with that now.

She poured herself a ristretto, her first cup of the day, and it filled her with excitement. Homemade, with a little foam heart on top.

"Delicious!" she exclaimed.

It had taken a bit of practice over the last few days while she trained herself to become a decent barista.

She used the rest of her morning to clean up the last of the materials and hide them in the back rooms of the building, including her former office, which she reckoned she might never need again.

"Yes, such a good place to stack the paint buckets," she said with satisfaction as she closed the door to her old office. "I hope no one ever needs to go in there again."

By the time she was done with the cleanup, it was already light outside. She checked her watch. Already 9 a.m.!

She went outside and looked again at the entrance to the coffee shop. Things were a little improvised. No massive letters, just some cardboard over the original logos of her bank. Quite a decent job, but it could have been better.

She'd focus on that another time. Right now, she was happy with the place she'd created.

"Hey, Miss Stalker neighbor, how's it going?" a voice came from behind.

She flinched, turning toward the source of the voice.

"Oh, hi John—I mean, Neighbor."

Then she straightened up and adopted a more dignified posture.

"Welcome to Jean's Coffee, the best coffee shop in town, or at least what's left of it."

"Whoa—how'd you know my name, Miss Stalker? This—this would be a really troublesome situation if I were a girl and you were a guy, don't you think? Not that I'm complaining, but, you know, I have no police to report to if I feel awkward in this situation."

Jean's jaw dropped. Her left hand stretched out as if it wanted to explain something, but no words came out.

"Ahem," she replied, suddenly regaining her composure, ice reshaping around her blue eyes. "Mr. Butterfly, there are no police anymore. If I really wanted to stalk you, I would. And you wouldn't see the end of it."

"Butterfly?" John cried. "So you also know my last name? That's quite impressive, Miss Stalker. I would've never—actually, haha, let's pretend this never happened and start over. I'm John. John Butterfly. And you are...?"

"I—I'm Jean."

"Jean—yeah, sure, like the café's name. That makes sense... So how does this place work? Are you serving stuff the usual way, or are we gonna reinvent the social situation?"

"Reinvent the what now?"

"Yeah, I mean, if you wanted to start a new type of café service, I think that would make so much sense. You don't have to stick to conventions anymore, right? We can just throw them out the window."

"Throw conventions... out the window?"

"Yeah, just think of the possibilities. We could sit on the floor, or have the customer make their own coffee. We could even pay in push-ups instead of money. Fifty push-ups for an espresso. One hundred for a latte. Wouldn't that be amazing?"

Jean's jaw dropped again as her brain went into fatal error mode.

"I—I'll take that into consideration. For now, let's just stick to the normal way a coffee shop works, okay?"

"Okay, I don't mind. You know, the apocalypse was so late in the evening—everything was already closed. Only late-night bars were open. And what's the point of going to a bar now, if there's no music, no pretty girls to talk to? Just me and a bottle of alcohol. But here—there's you. So I'm glad this is open."

"R—Right, well, I—I appreciate that. Now, please, take a seat. And tell me what kind of coffee you'd like. I don't have a menu yet, but we serve the usual: espresso, Americano, latte, cappuccino."

"Uhm, what about—Irish coffee?" John asked as he took a seat in one of the chairs.

Jean squinted at him. She didn't like the answer.

"Hmm, I don't have Irish whiskey... but I might have something similar upstairs in my office. I can check."

"And by the way, do I have to... that's the funny part. Do I have to pay at the end? Or can this be another type of social convention that we don't have to deal with anymore, right? I could pay, you know, with my body instead."

"With your w—w—what..." Jean repeated, eyes wide, her face going red.

"Yeah, like wash your dishes or carry your stuff as payment, you know?"

"Ah," she replied, exhaling a breath of relief. "That's... that's acceptable. Hmm. Carry my stuff? You know, I live on the thirtieth floor and the elevator doesn't work."

"Of course, I would be happy to assist!" He didn't even hesitate.

"I see," she replied, her eyes shifting sideways as she considered the proposal. "Fine, I will take that as payment."

"I will be forever in your debt, Miss Stalker. I mean, Jean."

"You're already in debt to my bank..." Jean mumbled under her breath.

"Did you say something?" John asked, looking at her.

"Nooo, nothing!" she said, averting her gaze. "One Irish coffee coming right up!"

Jean left with a dumb smile on her face. She was glad, in some weird way. She went upstairs to her old office, took the bottle of whiskey from her liquor cabinet, then moved on with the coffee, wondering whether she would—should—use the same heart pattern.

"It doesn't mean anything, does it? It's just... it's just what I would do for every client, right? It's just 'company policy.' We do hearts on coffees. It's nothing personal. It's just social convention. Except this guy doesn't believe in social conventions anymore, so he might think it's something personal. Ah, Jesus Christ!"

Eventually she served him the cup of coffee, heart foam on top, along with a fancy glass of whiskey. Jean was ready to take her leave, but he looked at the coffee, then at Jean, and she thought she saw a hint of embarrassment.

"But, uh, Jean, you can join me if you'd like. Or I could make you a coffee if you want."

Jean held back a laugh. It was the first time she saw him a little shy. Cute...

"That's fine. I'll make myself a coffee and then I'll join you."

She did just that. She took a seat at the back, her back against the entrance. John looked at her intently.

"Uh, so yeah, can I ask how you know my name? It's still a bit creepy, you know?"

Jean almost choked on her coffee. She took a deep breath.

"I used to work here, in this bank."

"You did? Oh, right, so you know my financial situation, do you?"

"I—uh—I might."

"Yeah, so the debt—I have a lot of it. I even lost count at some point."

"It's $314,900, to be more precise."

"Is it!?" he exclaimed. "Oh my God, that's worse than I thought."

"Not counting accrued interest," Jean added in a whisper.

"Interest? Oh, right, I forgot about that."

"Sigh, why are you surprised? It's your debt, not mine. Well, 'was' your debt. No one cares about debts anymore, right?"

"Right, that's the best part. I feel so free now. I mean, I always felt free, but, you know, this debt kept hanging over my head, like an executioner's axe over the head of a side character no one cares about."

Jean tilted her head, raising an eyebrow.

"You're not a side character..." she said, her voice softening.

John looked at her, surprised and once more a little embarrassed. Then suddenly, the door of the café opened. Before Jean had time to turn her head, she saw John Butterfly's face light up with joy. He looked at the entrance, then back at Jean, and said:

"It's Senator Clement!"