Wyne Pov:
The sound of the bakery's glass door being pushed open alerts me immediately. Today is not only a rough day, but also one of the worst days.
Everyone has the day off today, so I am the one who has to manage the kitchen, serving, and taking orders.
In all this time, I've not asked myself why I keep working here, until now.
Luckily for me, it's raining today, so the chances of customers coming turn into a 0.0001%, but it looks like today I must have hit the jackpot of bad luck.
I stand up as straight as a ruler, putting on that rehearsed smile on my face. It's starting to hurt after all these years, but I don't falter. It feels like it might stain my actual smile permanently.
Instead, I curl my hand into fists, burying my manicured nails into my palm.
"Endure the pain," I repeat in my head multiple times like a kid's melody.
The unknown customer's footsteps approach closer as their boots thud against the floor.
I open my eyes to look at them. I didn't know I had them close for this long, up until I was faced with them.
I blink once, twice, not believing the person in front of me. It was the same guy from yesterday. Unable to believe my eyes, I pinch my other hand, letting go of my previously curled hand.
That one guy Angelica was raving about, but I found him weirdly uneasy. Something about him makes my chest tighten, and I hate that I notice it every time.
He's back again, still dressed in a lot of black. Just when I was expecting to chill, I am greeted by the most unexpected person.
His face was completely covered, just like the first time I met him. This time it's by a motorcycle helmet, not by a cap, keeping his anonymity. Nothing about his body language tells me an ounce about him. One thing that I do notice is the golden watch positioned on his right arm.
At first, you'd note it as a minor detail, but for someone like him, it is like finding a gold mine.
"T-two croissants, please," I jump back as he talks to me. It's muffled by the helmet, but I can still hear him. He sounds nothing like what I expected, a voice you'd imagine a gangster would sound like, but no. All I see now is someone timid and anxious. He even stuttered!
What the hell!?
His voice is hoarse, nervous, and surprisingly sweet. It doesn't match his attitude and style at all. But I guess it's my fault since I presumed how he is, only from his appearance.
"Two croissants, correct?" I lift an eyebrow, my finger hovering, waiting for confirmation to put it into the tablet.
He shakes his head up and down vigorously, so I type that into the tablet. After that, I shift my gaze back to him.
His visor is now lifted up, giving me a clear view of his eyes.
And, oh god, are they majestic. They are a deep blue color that calls you like a siren; it's enchanting.
Despite that, we both stay silent as I walk to the kitchen and come back with his order, with my mind still going crazy.
Everything I thought about him initially disappears into a void, and a new persona emerges. I place a plate from the cupboard onto the counter before setting down both of the croissants.
"Here you go, 2 croissants, which will be 10 dollars. Will you eat here or take it?" I ask, as I begin to assemble our signature chocolate dressing.
After several tries, I get it right on the mark, the smile wide and bright. I spin the plate to face him so he can see it, my masterpiece. A weird sense of accomplishment fills me, a rare occurrence.
"What do you think nailed it, right?" I put my hands on my hips, puffing out my chest. "You don't have to praise me; a simple thank you will be enough."
He doesn't answer, he seems hesitant, very. His hands are clenched into fists.
"I- In here and thank you," He snatches the dish and bolts to the farthest table from the counter.
What just happened?! I stand frozen, puzzled. Did he just run off?! After all my efforts.
"Men really are just jerks," I groan loudly, and yes, I am hoping he hears every last bit of my venom. It takes multiple topic changes in my mind, to not just sprint towards him with a knife in hand. I need to see him in a body bag, but maybe not today, I'm not in the mood for bloodshed.
Instead, I pull out my headphones from my bag and put them on, now time for a song that matches the mood.
My music taste is too diverse, I might not even find one. Opera? Too poetic for my rage. Hip-hop? Only at home, I need to move to the beat, and I am not dancing in the cafe, especially with a witness. My last option is rap. It helps me calm down, even though it's supposed to express the opposite.
I tap on the playlist, choosing randomize.
I plop back down on my chair, playing with one of my curls to waste time. All while jamming to the music in my head, the songs pouring cold water on my overheating body.
After some time, I am fully entranced with the lyrics. The beat and chorus are fully etched in my mind by now. It makes me completely forget about the stranger I am supposed to be serving.
So I am taken aback when a loud crash reaches my ears through my headphones.
I slide them off, poking my head out of the back corner.
There on the ground, that same man is lying unmoving. He looks to be alive, just struggling to stay like it.
I sprint over to his side, immediately pressing my head against his chest. His breathing and heartbeat are weak, slowly getting worse and worse. I check his responsiveness with a light squeeze of his shoulder. Nothing.
I am starting to feel panic take over until he squeezes my hand.
"Sugar, I need sugar." He mumbles as his head lolls back in a groan. His voice is a shy away from a whisper.
Sugar. My eyes widen, and I swallow down a lump.
Veronica had switched out all the sugar for a more "keto" friendly environment. To be honest, we all knew it was because of budget cuts. But I never really paid attention since everything tasted the same for me.
The croissants and the chocolate lacked any sort of fructose, instead it was replaced with alternatives, a healthier version of the product.
"Sugar, are you sure that's all you need?" I ask again, stupidly. It's clear that getting him sugar would solve most of the problems now. I just want to fully understand his situation.
I get up before he can say anything, and I start searching the cabinets around.
Opening and closing them in chaos, trying to find anything sweet. It first starts in the kitchen, the most obvious place where sugar should be, but after tearing it half apart. There is none, except for an empty jar with sugar flakes stuck to the walls.
I continue rummaging around the cafe. Every now and then, checking on the man's pulse. I remove his motorcycle helmet to reveal his blond hair that doesn't reach past his ears. It's styled back, besides some that stick to his forehead.
I didn't want to at first, but it could help his breathing to remove a chunk of metal.
"Do you have anything else that can help?" I ask, pressing a hand against his forehead to check his temperature.
"Insulin," he gargles out, his eyes closing shut. "I forgot to bring. Insulin"
I freeze.
He's diabetic, isn't he? I let him go, laying him sprawled out on the cold, unmopped floor.
Then, without thinking, I head over to my backpack and pull out a juice box.
It was supposed to be my dinner tonight, mixed with some mac and cheese.
I poke in the straw while walking over to him. I get down to his level and poke it between his lips.
"How well do you know your medical diagnosis?" I question, tilting my head. Stupid idea since he isn't in his right mind, but it's important, regardless. I am not really hoping he answers. But he could have died if he told me about the insulin first.
He didn't need insulin. He needs sugar, as he said before, but his asking for insulin after is questionable.
Maybe he has been recently diagnosed? That would explain his deadly confusion.
Again, I am not a medical expert. I am studying psychology.
He nudges the tip, taking delicate sips, sip by sip, until the box is empty.