Chapter 11: The George Stephanopoulos Game
"Boys' night!" Joey announced at 5:30 PM on October 3rd, loud enough that everyone in Central Perk turned to look.
"Inside voice, Joey," Monica said, but she was smiling.
"Rangers game," Ross added, looking more excited than I'd seen him since the sonogram. "Rangers versus Penguins. We got tickets."
Chandler held up three tickets. "Nosebleed seats, but they were cheap and Joey knows a guy who knows a guy who—"
"Who was selling them outside Madison Square Garden," Joey finished. "Perfectly legitimate."
"Probably stolen," Chandler corrected.
"Legitimately stolen."
Rachel was watching them with amusement. "So what are us girls supposed to do while you're at your testosterone festival?"
"Sleepover at my place," Monica said immediately. "Pizza, trash TV, gossiping about our pathetic love lives."
"I don't have a pathetic love life," Phoebe protested. "I have a mysterious love life."
"You've been dating a guy named Paolo for two days."
"Exactly. Mystery." Phoebe grinned. "But yes, sleepover sounds good. I'll bring my cards."
I was making drinks while they planned, listening to the conversation with half my attention while tracking other customers with the other half.
Then Rachel said something that made me focus.
"I ran into Mindy yesterday. She told me Barry's been seeing someone." Her voice had a forced casual quality that wasn't fooling anyone. "His hygienist, apparently. Bernice."
The table went quiet. Monica reached over and squeezed Rachel's hand.
"Well," Chandler said after a moment, "at least we know Barry has a type. Dental professionals."
Rachel laughed, but it sounded brittle. "It's fine. I'm fine. It's been over a month. I'm totally over Barry."
She wasn't. Obviously. But saying it out loud was part of the process.
I made her coffee with both yellow and pink light active—hope and warmth, testing whether I could actually combine colors or if the orange light had been a fluke.
The two colors swirled together in the liquid like oil paints mixing, creating a soft peachy glow that faded as the infusion set.
It worked.
I brought the drink to Rachel and set it down gently. "On the house."
She looked up, surprised. "Why?"
"You looked like you needed it."
Her expression softened. "Thanks, Gunther."
She took a sip and I watched her shoulders relax fractionally. The brittle edge in her posture smoothed out. Not dramatically—the infusion wasn't mind control—but enough that she could breathe easier.
Rachel - 6:15 PM
Rachel Green walked back to Monica's apartment thinking about the coffee.
It had been perfect. Not just temperature and taste, but something else. Something that made her feel like maybe everything would actually be okay.
Barry was dating someone. That should have hurt more than it did. Should have sent her spiraling into regret and second-guessing.
But the coffee had been warm and perfect, and Gunther had brought it without her asking, and somehow that small kindness had made the news bearable.
He's sweet, she thought. The barista. Gunther. He pays attention.
She filed that information away for later—another person in this city who saw her as more than just Monica's friend who'd screwed up her life.
Monica was already pulling out sleeping bags. Phoebe showed up with a pizza and a deck of tarot cards. The apartment filled with the comfortable chaos of women who'd decided to have fun despite the world's bullshit.
Rachel settled onto the couch with her slice and thought: This is my life now. New friends, new city, new everything.
The coffee's warmth lingered in her chest.
She was going to be okay.
The boys left around 6:30 PM, heading to their hockey game. The girls left shortly after, giggling about something Phoebe had said.
Central Perk emptied out, leaving me with the evening crowd—college students studying, couples on dates, regulars reading newspapers.
I used Passive Glimpse on three new customers who looked promising.
First: a man in an expensive suit, late forties, carrying a briefcase with a law firm logo embossed on the side. The vision showed him in a courtroom, arguing a case, clearly successful. I made his espresso with blue light and watched him leave looking energized.
Second: a woman with paint under her fingernails and an art gallery catalog sticking out of her bag. Her vision showed a bright space full of paintings, people drinking wine, her laughing with someone important-looking. I gave her orange light—creativity boost—and she thanked me three times for "the best latte she'd ever had."
Third: a nervous college kid who looked like he was cramming for an exam. Vision showed him in a lecture hall, hand raised, professor nodding approval. Blue light for confidence. He drank it fast and went back to his textbooks with new focus.
Three strategic investments in people who might become regulars. Three chances to build the kind of clientele that would eventually help me buy this place.
Caroline Walsh walked in at 7:45 PM, right on schedule.
"The usual?" I asked, already reaching for the espresso.
"You remember." She smiled. "That's good customer service."
"That's my job."
I made her cappuccino with pink light—building that warm association with the space—and she settled into a corner table with her briefcase.
Fifteen minutes later, she approached the counter again.
"I have to ask," she said. "Your coffee is consistently excellent. How do you do that?"
"Good beans, proper maintenance, attention to detail."
"It's more than that." She studied me with the kind of analytical gaze that probably made traders nervous. "You care about what you're doing. That's rare in service work."
I shrugged. "Why make bad coffee when you can make good coffee?"
She laughed. "Fair point." She handed me her business card again—I already had one, but took this one too. "If you ever want to discuss business strategy, investment opportunities, anything like that... call me. I like people who take pride in their work."
"I'll keep that in mind."
She left with her usual generous tip, and I filed the interaction away as progress.
By 9:30 PM, the evening crowd had thinned to almost nothing. Just me and one college student who'd fallen asleep on her textbook.
I started the closing routine—wiping down surfaces, restocking cups, running the register—while my brain worked through what had happened.
I'd combined two colors today. Yellow and pink in Rachel's coffee, and she'd responded exactly like the combination would suggest: hopeful and emotionally open.
Back at the counter, I tested it again on my own drink. Blue and yellow this time—confidence and hope, the combination that felt like "you've got this and it'll work out."
The lights swirled together like they were meant to mix. Like the system was designed for combination rather than single-use.
I drank it and felt nothing—powers didn't work on myself. But watching the colors blend and hold confirmed something important.
I wasn't limited to one effect per drink. I could layer them, creating nuanced emotional support tailored to specific situations.
Blue + Yellow = confident hope for job seekers Green + Orange = calm creativity for stressed artists Pink + Yellow = warm hope for people grieving Blue + Orange = confident creativity for presentations
The strategic possibilities multiplied exponentially.
My notebook came out during the walk home. I added new entries:
October 3 - Color combination confirmed Yellow + Pink on Rachel: successful, reduced anxiety about Barry Strategic customers: lawyer (courthouse vision), gallery owner (art show vision), college student (class success) Caroline Walsh: explicitly offered business advice/investment connections New capability: layered color effects for nuanced support
The October air was cooling fast, turning Manhattan evenings crisp. I walked through crowds heading to bars and restaurants and late shifts, all of them living their 1994 lives without knowing what was coming.
I had knowledge. Powers. A plan that was slowly taking shape.
The gang was at a hockey game and a sleepover, bonding in ways that would strengthen their connections. I wasn't invited—wouldn't be for months, maybe years.
But I was building something else. A network of customers, a mastery of abilities, a foundation for the future.
Caroline Walsh's business card sat in my wallet next to her first one. Two pieces of paper that represented potential—connections, advice, maybe eventual investment capital.
The plan required patience. Required letting the gang have their journey while I built my own.
But I was good at patience. Had learned it over years of watching instead of living.
This time, the watching was strategic. This time, it had purpose.
My apartment was dark when I arrived. I turned on the single lamp and sat on the bed with my notebook.
Twenty-one days since waking up here. Three weeks of coffee-making and power-testing and careful observation.
The gang knew I existed now. Some of them even sought me out—Chandler for calming coffee, Monica for unspoken support, Ross for small kindnesses.
Rachel had thanked me by name today. Had registered that I paid attention.
Small victories. But victories nonetheless.
I fell asleep planning tomorrow's experiments—could I combine three colors? Four? Was there a limit, or could I theoretically blend every color into some kind of super-infusion?
The questions chased me into dreams where coffee glowed rainbow and the future was made of light.
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