Chapter 7: The Morning After
The espresso machine was being difficult.
I'd been fighting with it for ten minutes, trying to get the steam pressure right, when Ross walked through the door at 8:03 AM.
He looked worse than yesterday. The kind of tired that came from lying awake all night, staring at ceiling cracks and questioning every life choice. His shirt was wrinkled like he'd grabbed it off the floor. Hair not quite gelled correctly.
"Morning," I said, already reaching for a mug.
"Coffee," he said. "Please."
Not even a full sentence. That's how I knew it was bad.
I made his drink with the blue light active, concentrating on steady, calm, you're going to make it through today. The vision came quickly—Ross in a hospital room, fluorescent lights harsh overhead, looking at a grainy black-and-white image on a screen. A sonogram. Carol standing next to him with another woman, shorter, dark hair.
The image lasted three seconds before dissolving.
Ross took the coffee and sat at his usual spot by the window. He didn't drink it immediately, just held it while staring at the street outside.
The door opened again. Chandler and Monica walked in mid-conversation.
"—just saying that running away from your wedding is a perfectly reasonable response to realizing you're marrying the wrong person," Monica was saying.
"Sure, but doing it in the actual dress? That's commitment to the drama." Chandler spotted me behind the counter. "Coffee. Large. Latte. Not too hot because I have to drink it fast and I don't want to burn all my taste buds off before lunch."
"Decaf cappuccino," Monica added. "Extra foam."
I made Monica's first, adding a new light—orange, testing carefully. The color had appeared when I'd been thinking about creativity and warmth. I wanted to see what it did.
The drinks came out perfect. I brought them to the counter and Monica took a sip while still talking to Chandler.
She stopped mid-word.
"This coffee is really good today," she said, looking at the cup like it had just revealed secrets. "Like, really good."
Chandler tried his latte. "Huh. Yeah. Did you change beans or something?"
"Same beans," I said. "Maybe just having a good morning."
Monica took another sip, her expression shifting from stressed to thoughtful. "I should try that lavender thing with the chicken tonight. The one from the magazine. Why not, right?"
Chandler looked at her. "You're going to experiment on your restaurant customers?"
"It's Tuesday. Tuesdays are slow. Perfect for testing."
She was already pulling out a small notebook, scribbling ideas. The orange light had worked—creativity boost, maybe. Or just general positivity that made people more willing to try new things.
I filed the information away for later testing.
Ross hadn't moved from his window seat. Chandler noticed and wandered over to him, coffee in hand.
"You look terrible, man."
"Thanks, Chandler. That helps."
"I'm just saying, if you're going for the 'divorce survivor' aesthetic, you're nailing it."
Ross didn't laugh. Monica joined them, already shifting into problem-solving mode.
I wiped down the counter and watched them orbit each other—Chandler deflecting with humor, Monica organizing emotions into manageable pieces, Ross just trying to hold himself together.
Terry emerged from the back office carrying invoices.
"Gunther, can you help with the register?" he called out. "Something's jammed."
I went over. The register was fine—Terry just wanted to show me a receipt from last week that didn't match the books. We sorted it out in five minutes while the three friends talked quietly at Ross's table.
When I turned back around, Chandler was looking at me.
Not staring. Just... aware. Like he'd heard Terry say my name and was processing that the coffee guy was an actual person with an actual identity.
His eyes flicked away when I caught him looking.
You heard my name, I thought. You just don't care yet.
That was fine. Caring would come later.
Chandler - 8:47 AM
Chandler Bing had been coming to this coffeehouse for a week and had never bothered learning the barista's name.
Gunther, apparently. The guy Terry had just called over to fix the register was named Gunther.
Weird name. European, maybe. German? Dutch?
Chandler watched him work on the register with quick, efficient movements. Mid-twenties probably. Blonde hair styled in a way that screamed "I'm trying but not too hard." The kind of face that would disappear in a crowd—pleasant but forgettable.
Except the coffee was really good. Chandler had noticed that. And the guy was always here, always working, always competent in that invisible way that made you not think about how much work was actually being done.
"You okay?" Monica asked, pulling his attention back to the table.
"What? Yeah. Fine." Chandler sipped his latte. "Just thinking about work."
That was a lie. He'd been thinking about the barista's name and why it mattered that he'd never asked for it. But saying that out loud would make him sound weird.
Ross was doing his depressed divorced guy routine, which was getting old. Chandler wanted to help but didn't know how. Making jokes was his default setting, but jokes only worked if the person could laugh, and Ross looked like he'd forgotten how.
"Carol's sonogram is tomorrow," Ross said quietly.
"That's good, right? You'll get to see the baby?"
"I'll get to see my ex-wife's baby that she's having with her lesbian partner while I stand there wondering where my life went wrong."
Monica reached over and squeezed Ross's hand. "It'll be okay. You'll be a great dad."
Ross nodded but didn't look convinced.
Chandler glanced back at the counter. Gunther—he was already thinking of him by name now—was making drinks for new customers. He moved with the kind of muscle memory that came from doing the same task thousands of times.
Does he like this job? Chandler wondered. Or is he stuck here the way I'm stuck in data processing?
The thought was uncomfortable. Chandler pushed it away and focused on Ross, who needed his friends more than Chandler needed to have an existential crisis about other people's career choices.
The morning rush picked up around nine. I made drinks on autopilot while my brain processed the new information.
Orange light worked. It boosted creativity or positive thinking—Monica had immediately started planning menu experiments, which she definitely hadn't been considering when she walked in stressed about work.
The vision of Ross's sonogram was significant. I knew from the show that Carol was pregnant, obviously, but seeing it confirmed in real-time meant my visions were accurate. Reliable. I could trust them to show actual futures, not just possibilities.
And Chandler had heard my name. Small thing, meaningless in the grand scheme. But it was the first step toward being visible.
By noon, my shift was winding down. Terry took over the counter while I restocked cups and cleaned the espresso machine properly.
"You're doing good work lately," Terry said, not looking at me while he rang up a customer.
"Thanks."
"Keep it up. End of the month, we'll talk about that raise."
A raise. Right. Because what I really needed was going from $6.50 to $7.00 per hour when I was trying to figure out how to accumulate forty-five thousand dollars.
But I said, "Sounds good," because burning bridges was stupid.
I clocked out at 1 PM and walked home through midday Manhattan heat. September was transitioning into October, but the city hadn't gotten the memo yet. The air was thick and humid, making my shirt stick to my back.
Back at the apartment, I pulled out my notebook and added new entries:
September 23 - Day after pilot Orange light = creativity/positive thinking boost (tested on Monica) Vision confirmed: Ross's sonogram coming soon, Carol + Susan present Chandler heard my name via Terry - first awareness Status: Still mostly invisible, but making progress
I stared at the last line. Progress was slow. Painfully slow. But it was real.
The gang would be back tonight. They always came back. Central Perk was becoming their hub, their meeting place, exactly like it was supposed to.
And I was there. Making their drinks. Learning their patterns. Preparing for the moment when I stopped being furniture and started being a person they actually saw.
My stomach growled, reminding me I'd skipped breakfast. I made a sandwich with the last of my deli meat and ate it standing at the window.
Down on the street, people moved through their lives—rushing to work, running errands, living in 1994 without knowing what was coming. The tech boom. 9/11. The housing crisis. All of it still years away.
I had knowledge they didn't have. Powers they couldn't imagine. A second chance they'd never get.
The weight of that should have felt heavy. Instead, it felt like potential.
I had ten years. Ten seasons. Enough time to build something real.
The afternoon stretched ahead of me. I could sleep—I was still adjusting to Gunther's work schedule. Or I could plan. Figure out my next moves. Test the remaining colors I hadn't tried yet.
I chose planning.
Pulled out the notebook and started listing what I knew:
Confirmed Powers:
Blue light: confidence/calm boostYellow light: hopeOrange light: creativity/positive thinkingPink light: warmth/connection (tested on wealthy customer, need more data)Passive Glimpse: 3 uses per day, shows future 24-48 hours outRefined Presence: passive, gradual appearance enhancement
Untested:
Purple light (if it exists)Green light (if it exists)Vision range expansionEffect duration (how long do the boosts last?)
Current Status:
Gang knows I exist but doesn't know my name (except Chandler heard it once)Rachel hired as waitress, will be working alongside meRoss's sonogram this week - opportunity for connection?Terry considering raise - helpful but not enough for long-term goals
Next Steps:
Build rapport with Ross (he's most receptive right now due to vulnerability)Continue testing powers systematicallyIdentify more wealthy regulars for future networkingLet Rachel struggle but be available to help when asked
The plan looked solid on paper. Whether it would work in practice was another question.
I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes, just for a minute.
Sleep took me faster than expected, pulling me under into dreamless dark.
When I woke up, the light outside had shifted to late afternoon gold. I'd slept for three hours.
My shift started again at 5 PM. I had thirty minutes.
I showered, changed into a clean white shirt, and headed back to Central Perk through cooling air.
The gang would be there soon. Monica, Chandler, Ross, Rachel, Joey, Phoebe—all of them orbiting each other in their specific configuration.
And I'd be behind the counter, watching. Learning. Preparing.
One day, they'd look at me and see a friend instead of furniture.
But not today.
Today, I was still Gunther. The coffee guy. The one they didn't quite notice.
I pushed open the door to Central Perk and got to work.
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