Coffee or Tea (Artskaf)

[Nora Saint-Clair]

Even though Nora had told Claude to meet her at ten, she was, as usual, running late. The bright hum of Artskaf buzzed just beyond the glass door when she reached it, her stride quick but unhurried—like she had every reason to be delayed, and none to apologize for it. As her hand brushed the handle, someone else reached for it at the exact same moment.

The man—a wiry, thirty-something in a slightly rumpled blazer—stopped short, his eyes snagging on her like he'd forgotten what he was doing. Nora’s presence had that effect sometimes. Her hair was loose today, thick waves tumbling over her shoulders with an effortless kind of drama. A swipe of sharp eyeliner framed her dark eyes, the smoky edges softened just enough to keep her bold makeup from veering into theatrical. She wore black ankle boots and a tailored jacket over a cropped sweater, a look that said she belonged equally on the sidewalks of an artsy city block or striding confidently into an atelier.

“Oh, I insist,” he stammered, stepping back to pull the door open for her, his hand fumbling just slightly.

Nora let a faint, bemused smile curl across her lips. “You’re too kind,” she said, her voice honeyed with just the right amount of teasing. She patted his arm lightly—like they were old friends, though she’d never seen him before in her life. “What would I have done without you?” she added, her tone sliding between sincere and sardonic so smoothly it was impossible to tell which one she meant.

The poor guy laughed nervously, stepping aside as she breezed past. She barely managed to suppress an eye roll as she entered the café, though. She didn’t mind a little chivalry in theory, but the assumption that her arms might as well be painted onto her sides? That she hated.

Claude was easy to spot, seated at a small table on his own. His posture was impeccable, his expression a mixture of bemused patience and fondness that only a brother could muster. Nora raised a hand, motioning for him to stay where he was as she made her way to the counter. Ordering was quick: a cortado and a flaky almond pastry. The barista nodded appreciatively at her ensemble, though she didn’t linger long enough to acknowledge it. She had things to do. 

Snaking between the chairs, she wove her way through the café with the grace of someone who was used to being noticed—and knew exactly how to handle it.

“Claude!” she exclaimed brightly, her face lighting up as she reached him. She leaned down to kiss him on both cheeks, the gesture half tradition, half affection, and entirely Nora.