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When moving to SimCity, the plan for Dina was to find a rich husband and live “comfortably” ever after. When that failed, she resorted to option B: work as a barista in the local coffee shop, Cafe Petite.
Unlike her failed dreams of law school, which sadly required effort and discipline on her part, this type of work was entry level. Quick cash. But it wasn’t easy. And soon Dina Caliente would learn there were things about being a barista that she absolutely hated.
It was not a job for the weak-willed or the faint of heart. The blisters all over her fingers and arms were proof of that. All of those little instances of accidentally knocking into the steam wand on the espresso machine during the morning rush taught her that lesson the hard way. One particular shift left her bandaged, gauze and ointments on her arm while sleeping with an ice pack. The ibuprofen in her bloodstream muted the pain just enough to sleep. And then she’d have to wake up at 5 a.m. for the morning shift and do it all over again.
Then there were the disgustingly sticky syrups that she hated. And oh, how the SimCity moms simply loved loading their lattes with that junk! Then they would have the audacity to turn around and ask for nonfat milk! “Gotta cut calories somewhere, right?” joked Nancy Landgraab, the queen bee of the SimCity moms clique. Meanwhile, none of that woman’s coffee clutch club of friends dared disclose to her how that white velour jumpsuit stretched pitifully across places it shouldn’t.
Dina also despised the disgruntled customers, especially the ones who repeatedly claimed the milk tasted strange. Komei Tellerman was notorious for this. He would come in, order a soy latte, then grumble and complain that it tasted awful.
“Sir,” Dina would advise through a polite smile with gritted teeth, “there’s typically an after taste with soy milk. In fact, it’s well-known to have a bitter after taste in coffee. Why not try the pistachio milk or almond milk instead?”
His eyes would narrow to slits and he’d glower at her while muttering, “You monster,” nearly every time. “Don’t you know I have a nut allergy?? I can’t consume that!”
Dina would have to resist rolling her eyes because he pulled this charade every day. She never knew if it was for attention or because he was merely a contrarian. He’d also pulled this same ploy when she suggested oatmilk, too. By the fourth attempt, Dina presumed he was just looking to be comped for a free coffee.
Morning shifts were typically worse because of the volume of customers, which increased the volume of absurd complaints. Dina couldn’t take it anymore. Eventually, she begged Joe Carr, her manager. She needed to get out of the morning rush.
“Joe, you don’t understand, I need a different shift,” Dina pleaded. “I’m not made for before sunrise!”
“Fine, fine, you can work nights,” he conceded with an exasperated sigh, “but you need to find the person to make the switch with your shift!”
Dina grinned. That was easy enough. She already had just the person in mind. Crystal Vu could swap in a heartbeat. She always complained about the “freaks” who drank coffee at night, and she was itching to earn more tips from that morning rush of high-maintenance customers.
After a week, it was all too clear to Dina that the evening shift was infinitely better, especially because of the patrons! Also, it didn’t hurt that the flirtation options increased with the evening crowds. Who knew the prospects changed so drastically? Dina would be lying to say her dreams of finding some rich man to whisk her away from the stink of spilled sour milk, saccharine syrups and burnt coffee grinds had been tabled; if anything they were more active than ever! She still had her “husband-worthy” radar up just in case.
It started with Sanjay Ramaswami. He was handsome, charming, and down to earth. He came in twice per week, not as a customer but as one of the resident artists. Sanjay had an arrangement with Joe to sing and play his acoustic guitar, then he’d order a matcha green tea between sets. He was friendly enough, but he was also married with a kid. Once she discovered those details, he was stricken from her list of “husband material.” After all, she wasn’t a home-wrecker!
But no matter about Sanjay; Dina had another in mind. He also happened to be one of her favorite customers: Mortimer Goth. He was devastatingly handsome, well-dressed… yes, even for patronizing the coffee shop in the evenings. He worked as a local columnist for The SimCity Chronicle. He would arrive with his messenger bag and laptop, sporting his designer button-down shirts with a crisp blazer, dress slacks with the sharp crease front, and his look finished with those Oxford wingtip Italian leather shoes. He ordered a few cappuccinos — ready to burn the midnight oil — as he scrambled to meet deadlines for weekly publication.
Dina enjoyed seeing Mortimer the most. His smile had warmth that always radiated from his eyes, and his friendly banter was always cheerful. Sometimes that banter slid just enough into mild flirtation, but he’d always pull away once the repartee got too risque. Still, a girl can dream, can’t she? That cologne of his could haunt her for the rest of her days, practically smelling him in her sleep as she dreamed of being Mrs. Goth. She wanted to take things further, possibly ask him for his number or a date, or even just make out with him at closing time! Unfortunately, her fantasies of Mortimer Goth would remain forever shadows in her mind. He made his intentions very clear with her one night. He was at the counter, picking up his order — deliberately using his left hand to grab the cardboard sleeve for his cup — and Dina noticed the very obvious gold wedding ring.
Damn. And thus, her dream of finding the perfect man, once again deferred. She really thought he could’ve been the one, too.
Nevertheless, even with Mortimer’s rejection, she still favored the night shifts. The night customers were leaps and bounds better than the morning rush and grind. She did not miss the likes of Nancy Landgraab and her gaggle of latte moms or Komei Tellerman’s conniving ways to earn a free coffee. It helped that Sanjay and Mortimer were affable and easy to talk to. However, not all of the night customers were as personable.
Malcolm Landgraab IV particularly came to mind as one of the “less personables.” His arrogance knew no bounds. Every time for his order, he insisted on using the Roman numeral with his name in the order! He was the type of guy who needed to exude success through materialistic possessions. That gold watch on his wrist likely cost more than three months of Dina’s rent. And yet he ordered the cheapest item on the menu: a large hot coffee. Black.
Malcolm’s eyes didn’t radiate warmth; they exuded dominance. He looked at Dina like he simply had to name the price, and he could buy her — like one of his stocks he traded at night. Dina kept their exchanges simple: an air of forced politeness. Otherwise, she’d likely run her mouth, telling this guy exactly where he could stick his usual order of a large hot black coffee. The night shift was far too precious to her to risk by upstaging one customer’s egotism. So, if she had to play along with Malcolm Landgraab IV’s charade of being "King of the Coffee Shop,” so be it.
And then there were some regulars who frequented Cafe Petite that didn’t quite fit into either category. One of them in particular was borderline…well, strange.
Yet he happened to be her secret favorite customer, mainly because of his idiosyncrasies. She couldn’t quite figure him out. He wore his oddity like a shield, similar to the way he wore that old-fashioned long black overcoat every night. He moved about the world like he refused to be defined by anyone’s expectations.
Dina didn’t know his name, but she had his presence nearly memorized. His slim frame would enter the coffee shop tensed up, like he’d been holding his breath for a long distance swim underwater. He’d race in there around dusk, like he was outrunning the sunset. Always breathless, always dramatic. He’d take off his hat and sunglasses, and stare impassively at her. His eyes fixed coldly on hers like she’d potentially offended him with her warm greeting. He always wore black. He’d take off his leather gloves at the counter, head bowed, and his baritone voice vibrating through the space with his order, “A hot water, please.”
He always paid for the drink, even when she stated hot water was free. But he insisted. Then he’d leave the remaining change in the tip jar. Dina would smile as she put on the cardboard sleeve and held out the cup for him to grab. One time their hands accidentally brushed, and she was shocked by the iciness of his fingers. Whenever he leaned closer to grab the cup, she could smell the outside air on his clothes, yet underneath the scent was something darker; something secretive, ancient, and not meant for her prying eyes.
He mainly came to listen to Sanjay’s music. He’d take a corner seat, away from the windows and strategically out of view of the long mirror that hung behind the coffee bar.
And this is why Dina preferred the slower nights. Sanjay strummed his guitar while Mortimer punched away a rhythmic cadence of his witty editorial, and Malcolm sat, quietly conversing, Bluetooth device in ear and coffee in hand as he negotiated over the phone for two hours like the coffee shop was his personal office.
As for her mystery gentleman in black? He sat there, a hand fixing his silver hair from the gusty wind (or his hasty entrance), and closed his eyes listening deeply to Sanjay’s guitar like it lulled something deep inside him.
Dina wished she had that same connection to music. She did appreciate the finer things in life, and perhaps that’s why she appreciated her eccentric regular customer who flew in with the evening breeze. He knew the beauty in the ordinary — like Sanjay’s music. They had brief snippets of conversation; small talk about art, books, and some other local musicians. And each exchange left her wanting a little more.
He never did anything with that cup of hot water. It would sit on the table until it cooled, and he would be nearly last to leave at closing time. Dina could at least appreciate that he’d pour the water into the ficus plant near the door, never realizing it was plastic and had no need of the drinks he gave with that empty cup. Yet she appreciated the gesture of cleaning up after himself. If only Malcolm Landgraab could perhaps learn a thing or two from him about coffee shop etiquette!
It may have been the slower crowds leaving Dina’s mind to idle easily, or she was merely intrigued by her new favorite patron. He became a puzzle for her to solve; a locked door she needed to pick and discover what he was hiding inside.
She needed to know more. As usual, he came the next night, approaching the counter for his order. He set down his hat with the folded sunglasses inside. “Hot water, please.”
“Sure. Your name?” Dina asked casually, black Sharpie in hand.
He stiffened. “You’ve never required it before.”
“New policy by management, I’m afraid,” Dina explained with sweetness in her voice as she studied him again. She never really noticed the buttons on his coat until now. It looked like an older antiquated style. “Is that peacoat vintage?”
“It’s a frock coat,” he muttered, refusing to engage further. He wouldn’t budge beyond that minor correction.
He stared at her. She stared back expectantly.
“You still haven’t provided me with your name, sir,” she reminded him.
There was a glint of mischief in his eye, the left corner of his mouth slightly pulled, “I’ll tell mine if you tell yours.”
“Dina,” she said, still smiling as she stared at him, still holding his paper cup hostage.
He flinched first, looking askance as he said quietly, “Vladislaus.”
Dina nodded, then her brows drew together. “Um, Vladis…how do you spell—?”
“Just write Vlad,” his voice was rising slightly in irritation.
“Just Vlad?” Dina asked, the marker still hovering over the cardboard cup.
“Yes!” he hissed slightly. “Just Vlad is fine. Write that and give me my water already,” he said through gritted teeth.
She smirked, put the Sharpie tip to the side of his cup, and scribbled his name. Dina filled it with hot water, applied the sleeve with a grin as her eyes gleamed with amusement, making sure he could see what she wrote on the cup in capital letters:
JUST VLAD.
“Good to see you here again,” she said with a coy smile, then walked away to take Malcolm’s standard order of a large hot black coffee.
The following night he came in with his usual hurried flourish, as he discarded his sunglasses into the hat now in his hand. He walked up to the counter, next in line where Dina would take his order. She was trying to deflect Malcolm’s attempts to ask for her number once again.
“Malcolm, listen, you seem like a nice guy and all—” she offered, trying to let him down gently. She didn’t need him reporting her to Joe and losing her shift.
He leaned on the counter, his hand immovable and quietly invading her workspace. “But you think you’re better than me, is that it? Babe, do you know how much money I make in an hour?”
“It’s not that, Malcolm. I’m just not looking to date customers. It’s bad for business.”
Malcolm was readying to open his mouth when they were interrupted.
“Excuse me!” Vladislaus leaned forward over Malcolm’s shoulder, inserting himself into their dispute. “Have you ordered yet or not?”
“Hey, back off, old man,” Malcolm warned, holding up a dismissive hand over his shoulder, “I’ll get there in time. You can order your tea or whatever in a min–”
Vladislaus’s long, pale fingers gripped Malcolm firmly by the shoulder, spun him around until the men were face to face, and Dina swore she heard Vladislaus mutter something strange like, “Nosferatu!”
It all happened so quickly. Dina watched, wide eyed and surprised by the quick flurry of actions, barely registering it all. In one moment she was deflecting Malcolm’s advances while trying to take his coffee order, the next moment she was staring at his limp body, laying prone and dormant on the ground. She closed her surprised mouth as Vladislaus stepped over Malcolm’s sleeping form to approach the counter.
“Uh, yes,” he cleared his throat in embarrassment and lowered his eyes, “one hot water—”
Dina nodded, nervously raced to grab the Sharpie, scribbled on it, and filled the cup from the hot water spigot attached to the industrial coffee urn. She fitted the cup with the sleeve and gently pushed it across the counter, the Sharpie marker message clearly in his view, as her fingers deliberately brushed his. “Thank you,” she whispered and smiled only for him to see.
He continued to glance in her direction as he walked away with his cup in hand. He glanced down at what she wrote and stopped, eyes meeting hers with trepidation. She held his gaze, her eyes looking at his cup where she had left him a note. He looked down at the cup again and held it reverently. Dina smiled before he could fix her with one of his cold stares and moved back to the cash register to punch in his order.
Vladislaus sat at his usual table and continued to steal glances her way. She knew. And she knew that revealing her knowledge to him was dangerous, but she had to prove his secret was safe with her.
Right before closing time, their eyes met again. He pointed to the cup with that one-sided smile, the slight smirking tug at the corner of his mouth. She nodded and held her finger to her lips. He grinned and looked again at the cup, admiring the small doodle she scribbled instead of his name: a little black bat drawn in Sharpie, wings spread in all its glory, and two little fangs protruding its mouth.
Malcolm bolted up to his feet, dazed and confused, and incoherently ordered his black coffee.
Dina and Vladislaus’ eyes met across the room. She smiled at him. He looked back to the doodle on his cup and then to her again. He studied her more carefully in the forthcoming nights.
The next evening, everything followed the usual routine. Vladislaus arrived in haste, racing the sunset and discarding the hat and sunglasses the moment he was inside. He strode to the counter and ordered his usual: a cup of hot water. This time he chose to look directly into Dina’s eyes, unguarded, instead of lowering them to the counter when he ordered. She didn’t realize until then how his irises were more gray than blue.
Dina gave her usual warm smile. Tonight she slipped him a tea bag with his drink. “Dried leaves and rind from plasma fruit,” she said softly as her fingers briefly brushed against his. She felt the little spark of electricity between them; he didn’t pull away. There was that faint hint of a smile on his lips as he gingerly took the cup from her. His eyes continued to move back to hers as he sat across the coffee shop for the rest of the night.
Vladislaus showed up more frequently, and even a touch earlier some nights. He’d still arrive breathless and disheveled before composing himself again. But now his movements changed, he walked slower as he approached the counter. He’d attempt to make small talk which died on his tongue after a few exchanges, but his eyes continued to meet hers every night. He was always finding some reason to linger after he ordered, just to be near her, capture one more moment before it would break propriety.
Dina still slipped him little doodles and notes on the cups. She drew bats. Or wrote a cursive note, wishing him a good night instead of day. Sometimes hearts. Once the hearts appeared, she noticed the next change in him. He was growing less rigid, less aloof with her. He’d stay until closing time. With the lights turned off, they’d hover at the door as she locked up for the night. She’d look into his gray eyes, the hint of an unspoken question swirling within. His lips quirked behind that silver goatee, a flicker of a thought before the hesitation reached his eyes and he pulled away from the moment.
Dina looked his way and smiled warmly. “Well, good night then, ‘Just Vlad,’” she said and winked as she started to walk home.
It took only a few steps before she felt his presence before seeing him again. Her pulse quickened slightly at the notion he was escorting her home — at a distance. She glanced over her shoulder at him and he startled, stopping briefly, before she heard his footsteps follow her again.
Pulling out her key, she hesitated. A thought passed her mind to ask him inside. After all, he was gentlemanly enough to walk her home…
…in his own way.
Thirty feet behind her.
Dina turned to ask him. When she looked up, the street was empty without a trace of his whereabouts.
The next several nights the pattern repeated. Dina noted that Vladislaus had been coming later to the shop, but he continued to prolong his departure until well after closing time. She would close up, and he would still linger there. Their eyes would meet — yet neither spoke.
And then she walked slowly, stopping occasionally to see if he still followed. She’d peer over her shoulder to see him just down the way. By the third stop, Dina called out, “Why don’t you be a proper gentleman and walk me home already, Vlad?”
He appeared beside her, walking in step with her now. She led him to her apartment. Before she grabbed her keys from her pocket, she turned to face him.
The question in her eyes was mirrored back to her. Her heart suddenly thrummed a pleasurable stir. Dina wanted to blame it on something in the air, something in the moment. Her lips parted briefly as she wondered aloud, “This is the part where I’d invite you in for a glass of wine or a cup of coffee, but…”
A knowing smile from Vladislaus. “You don’t know what you are asking for by doing that.”
“Yeah, I know.” Her head tilted to the side as she looked at him. “ And… you don’t really drink, do you…?”
“Actually, I…” He turned his head, eyes downcast. He cleared his throat briefly. “I already did. Before coming tonight.”
Vladislaus looked up and she caught his glance. Their eyes stayed on each other. Her heart raced as anticipation mounted with each passing second. She took a step closer. His hand reached up to touch her cheek lightly.
“And…what does it mean if I want this?” She closed her eyes, leaning slightly into the feel of his cool, yet reassuring touch. “You must realize that I want you.”
His thumb stroked her cheek lightly, eyes still on her. “I have to warn you: once you invite a vampire into your home,” he said, voice low, his breath enticing against her ear, “you cannot escape. You will not be free of me.”
Dina’s hand moved to the back of his head and pulled him into a kiss, finally succumbing to the moment. Instead of an insatiable hunger, the reverence he’d always displayed toward her titillated her senses. The tenderness Vladislaus reciprocated surprised her. As his gentleness quietly shifted to something far more urgent and insistent, a familiar heat pooled in her belly. Vladislaus pulled her closer, crushing her firmly against his frame. She could feel his strength while in his arms and her pulse quickened eagerly in response.
She broke the kiss for a moment. Dina looked into his eyes, reading the hunger he possessed there: not for her blood, but for her. “I’m willing to take my chances with that risk,” she finally answered, as she pulled out her keys and fumbled to unlock the door.
Once the door opened, Dina grabbed Vladislaus by the lapels of his black peacoat — no, a frock coat, she reminded herself — and yanked him inside.