She blurted her order to the teenage barista before he could ask and gave him her name. Feeling somehow off, she wandered over to one of the small tables and sat on the barstool waiting for her drink. A faint itchiness that started at the base of her spine was working its way all over her body. Fidgeting, she rubbed her arms absentmindedly, half aware that something was definitely not right. She couldn’t have said what it was exactly, only that there seemed to be something wrong with the world today.
The young barista motioned toward her and she walked to the counter to grab her coffee. The medium latte with a single shot of espresso, skim milk, iced, was decidedly on the not iced side. More like hotter than Tucson, Arizona in mid-July hot. And the name printed on the side in black sharpie was definitely not Gillian.
‘Jean-Paul’
Scratched onto the counter, just under the edge of her cup, someone had used a pocket knife to carve the words:
Sartre was a hack. Make your own exit.
Gillian stared at the words even more obscure than the ridiculous moniker Joe Jr. had stuck her with today. Feeling uneasy, she lifted the coffee to her lips as she crossed the room. The hellishly hot liquid death burned the ever-loving shit out of her throat and she sputtered in shock.
A tiny dribble of coffee dripped from her chin and down onto her white work blouse. As Gillian watched the brown dot spread out in a blurry circle on the white silk, the edges began to waver and the color lighten as it evened out into a perfectly round stain. Her mouth parted open and she waited for the thought that she could almost grab ahold of to manifest. The faint echo of a memory or a dream warbled and then vanished, leaving her to shake her head at her own ridiculousness- standing in the middle of the coffee haus while her best work blouse stained.
Sighing loudly, she grabbed a handful of napkins and rubbed the now hopelessly set-in stain as she made for the exit. Lifting her shoulder, she hitched her purse back up as she bumped the door with her hip. As the door swung in instead of out, Gillian felt a moment of perfect clarity a split second before the door slammed into her and her coffee cup burst in her hand, raining down 2,000 degree coffee like Mt Vesuvius.
She didn’t cry out in pain as the burning hot liquid coffee lava flowed over her body, flaying the tiny, fragile hairs on her arms and immediately soaking her underwear with what might be the best birth control ever. She did, however, let loose a growl of unintelligible curses that anyone standing close enough to hear would later say sounded like the howl of demon tongues.
Gillian stood perfectly still, staring at the trendy thirty-something man in designer rags. Hipster. The thought resonated like a bell in the dusty attic of her mind:
This has happened before.
The slew of garbled speech died on her tongue, burnt away like so much body hair under the wrath of a cup of over brewed coffee. Déjà vu. She’d heard of it, but this was the first time that she could remember ever experiencing it.
“Oh no! I’m so so sorry! My fault. Totally my fault,” the hipster said quickly. He giggled nervously as Gillian stared in horrified fascination.
When he grabbed a handful of napkins and started blotting uselessly at the drenched now brown blouse that clung alarmingly against her skin, Gillian didn’t bat his hand away like she normally would. She didn’t yell at him to get away from her. Instead, she watched with wide eyes as he apologized profusely and tried to help.
“Did you…” She stopped, afraid of sounding like a crazy person. Or crazier person, if she was being honest. “Do I know you?”
He let out one of his standard nervous chuckles. Again, the faint tinkle of a tiny bell brushed away the cobwebs in Gillian’s mind.
This has happened before.
And an even more powerful thought like the bong of a church bell reverberated throughout her being:
How many times before?
Arlo stopped scrubbing stupidly at her trashed top and cocked his head at the curious question.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“That’s what I just asked you?!” Gillian snapped.
Brushing his hand away, she dropped her coffee cup onto the floor where it rolled to bump against his shoe, name side up.
“Not cool, man. We only have one planet. Do you want to make it a trash planet?” He glanced at the name on the white paper cup. “Jean-Paul?”
Wow.
“I’m Arlo, by the way,” he said with a wide smile.
“I’ll alert the presses,” Gillian muttered as she squelched out of the shop, soaked shoes leaving little lakes of coffee along the sidewalk.
She had a spare work suit, sans jacket, in her locker. Luckily, she always gave herself extra time to get to work because today she was going to need it.
Gillian squished speedily down the sidewalk, skirting several strangers. There were far too many people infringing on her rather large personal space bubble… more like a space atmosphere really… for her taste. So, she lifted one foot to step down into the mostly empty street and froze. The overwhelming feeling of déjà vu swept over her again. Jerking her foot back, she stared at the bicycle that appeared in the exact spot where her foot would
