V&F Microfiction: Cups and Cranes

"Not necessarily sci fi."

This non-scifi micro-fiction was inspired by a Note from

Ian DeGraaf

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Midjourney

Today, the name is "Alex." Yesterday, it was "Sam." The day before, "Jordan." Each time, a different name.

"Your usual?" but I already know the answer. A medium vanilla latte with a dash of cinnamon. Simple and unchanging.

The first time, he was "Taylor." I remember thinking maybe he was just indecisive. A few days later, he introduced himself as "Morgan."

Then it was a daily thing. Once, it was "Drew." I wanted to ask, but the café was busy that day, and the chance slipped away. Another time, "Chris," but the opportunity passed as I handed a customer their change. Besides, what if he didn't want to share?

He's tall, with hair that looks like it’s been styled with a hand run through it. Seems approachable, but he’s so quiet. He wears the same grey coat, collar slightly frayed, like he’s had it forever.

Today his name is “James” and I’m feeling bold. I add little quotation marks around his name before handing him the cup.

He pauses with the cup halfway to his lips. Putting it down, he fishes out a small origami crane from his coat pocket, and sets it next to the tip jar. He turns and walks out without a word.

The crane stares up at me, telling me nothing. Tomorrow it will be another name.

The café bustles around me as I continue my day. Orders come and go and the crane slips from my mind, then it’s closing time and I clean up as the last few customers filter out. Wiping down tables, stacking chairs, clearing the counter.

I'm halfway through counting my tips when my other hand brushes the crane. It’s just looking up at me. Then I’m folding and unfolding it in my hand, and I glimpse the neat writing inside.

My sister thinks maybe CIA or Witness Protection. But I really need that psychology degree to come in handy, so I suggest Dissociative Identity Disorder. It sounds sophisticated enough.

It’s his regular time the next morning, and the bell over the door jingles.

I hold the marker ready. "Good morning. What can I get for you today?"

"My usual." He gives me a quirked smile. “Michael.”

When I place the vanilla latte, dash of cinnamon, on the counter, he’s at a table scrolling his phone and doesn’t see.

My colleague calls his name, his real one, but I’m helping another customer. By the time I turn back the drink is gone.

There’s another paper crane perched neatly on the counter.

I turn it in my hands, but can't unfold it, not yet. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe at tip time. For now, it takes its place next to the first one.