ALEXEI

     Inside the Starbucks that sits on the corner I must pass to get home things have become quite the shit storm. (Not a must because there are no alternate routes but a must because I must because to defer, to take an alternate route, is unfathomable.)

     Shittier, I think, then the shit storm that is the morning rush. Shittier, I think, than Dunkin coffee.

     It isn't even time for coffee. It's time for bed. Reason is not what made me stop in. It was something else completely. I hated the feeling of being tired but I had a hard time finding sleep most days.

    Chaos. Chaos is what called to me, dragged me through the door, pinned me to my spot in the ever-growing line. Chaos and the pale boy behind the bar who was getting off on creating it.

SINCLAIR

      In true Sinclair fashion, I stop by the Starbucks with every intention of helping. I was a server in another life. I understand the strife.

     "Don't even bother, man," I call to the guy who walks in and makes a displeased face at the line zigzagging across the store. Despite the chaos, the line continues to grow and those in it remain steadfast in their, granted highly agitated, waiting.

     Whistling, I stroll past Candace, who's working the register. Just as I'm passing, the money drawer opens. Before she can move to grab the customer's change, I slap it shut.

     She stares at the machine, wide eyed and confused. She's pretty, with two bleached money pieces framing her face and a pouty injected lip that could pass for natural. She's frazzled and trying not to appear it as she winces and says, "Sorry. It's been acting weird all day."

     It hasn't been acting weird all day, just since I showed up. But if I've learned anything in death its that human instinct is to rationalize the inexplicable.

     Charlie is on the bar, drenching his white shirt in yellow sweat stains as he moves to keep up with the orders coming his way. Megan is helping him, working on the hot drinks. The pair keep casting frantic glances at the ever-growing line.

     "They're not going to disappear, I can promise you that," I say as I wraps my hand around the whip cream canister and start spraying it into the air. Charlie cries out, swiping at the can so it goes flying off the bar towards the line of customers.

     He looks up at them with an expression of shock. There's whip cream all over the front of his green apron. The customers aren't amused, glaring at him.

     "What the hell, Charlie?" Megan barks, glancing at him. 

     "I have no clue what just happened," he squawks, going back to the iced latte he was working on.

     "You guys need to pick up the pace," Candace snaps. "This is ridiculous."

     "Maybe this wouldn't be a problem if someone hadn't put practically everything in the wrong place," Megan retorts.

     I raise my hand. "That someone would be me."

     Charlie makes a strained sound as he slides some drinks onto the counter towards the customers. Candace shoves more cups his way.

     "You guys look stressed," I say next, grinning at the three. "Don't worry, I can totally help out."

    I step through Charlie, moving to the end of the counter where I can flip the nozzle on the iced coffee, watching as it pools on the counter and then pours onto the floor in a rapid stream.

     "Charlie!" Megan cries before running over to flip it back up.

     I lean back against the counter, gazing at them amused, as Megan turns to yell at Charlie. I'm only here to mess with them until one of them cracks. My bets on Charlie. If I had functioning olfaction, I'd smell the anxious salty tang of his sweat-stache.

     "You did it, now, Charlie," I say cheerfully with a shake of my head as Megan struts off into the back to grab a mop. Just because I can, I flip the tab again. It is an endless stream of coffee. A ridiculous amount really. A total waste.

     Charlie is quick to stop it, cursing under his breath as he glances around as if he expects someone to be there. I get it. The alternative is accepting that something supernatural is going on here. Maybe the coffee container is possessed. Starbucks is haunted. But nobody wants to think like that.

     Charlie's breathing is erratic, and he tugs on the collar of his shirt before moving back to the drinks he was working on. Should I give it another whirl or is it overkill? Eh, what the hell. I open the spigot one last time, before walking away.

     Megan is heading back in with the mop, but drops it at the sight of the spilling coffee, running over to stop it. She slips on the wet floor and reaches out for Charlie, bringing him down with her.

     I look out at the line of waiting customers, just to see how they're fairing. It's even more fun when the customers start bitching at the baristas. Raises the bar, so to speak. There's always one sick bastard in the line who all and out shits his pants laughing, but they're all pretty much focused on the spilling coffee spectacle.

     Except for one guy who I swear is looking right at me.

ALEXEI

     The problem, you see, is once I get on the line, I'm determined to see it through. There's a group of people behind me and I don't want to give them the satisfaction of thinking they're any closer to having their needs met this evening. By the look of it, none of us will be getting our orders taken and filled tonight.

     There are four people behind the counter, two baristas, a cashier, and some guy who appears to be doing nothing. Or maybe not nothing. He isn't doing his job, clearly, but he's doing a fine job of getting in the way.

     I watch as his co-workers ignore the fact he just opened the spout on the iced coffee, and run to clean up his mess. The girl yells at the male barista as if it's his fault and the kid looks like he's going to vomit or defecate himself. Potentially both. A moment later, the asshole has opened the spout of coffee again.

     I can't believe he's doing this and none of his co-workers are even reacting to him. In fact, they appear to be getting more enraged with each other. It doesn't make any sense, and I'm in no mood to work out the dynamic behind the counter.

     But then the guy does it a third time, and while I don't like to involve myself in other people's business, his jokes are wasting everyone's time. I tilt my head, looking at the line of people in front of me, seemingly unbothered by his antics.

     Just as I'm about to say something, the asshole stops leaning against the back counter and walks through the other guy. I blink repeatedly. Give my eyes a good rub. I'm sleep deprived. I'm seeing things.

     I shouldn't even get the coffee. I should go home and try to sleep. (I should go home and stare fitfully at the ceiling for hours.)

     My eyes follow the guy as he walks past the girl who's running to, no doubt, clean up the mess he made. I watch her fall, and take down the boy, can't help but cringe at the scene. But I'm focused on this guy who's walking away with the most entertained expression on his face.

     The boy glances around the room like he wants to gloat with someone and meets my gaze. I furrow my brow slightly, aggravated but mostly confused. The boy turns his head faintly, and his expression falters for a second.

     The cashier opens the register beside him, and when the money tray pops out, he swipes it back in before she can put the bills inside. "It's been doing that all day!" the girl exclaims to the customer.

     "There's something wrong with that guy," I grumble more to myself than anyone as I shake my head.

      The woman standing in front of me turns slightly, and asks, "He really is a klutz, isn't he? He should be at the register."

     "No, not the klutz, the asshole." I point to where the boy is standing behind the glass pastry display still staring at me. His eyes are sort of wide now, and he no longer looks amused.

     "What guy?" the woman asks glancing around the room.

    "What guy?" I repeat confused. "The one making a mockery back there. He's right there." I point again.

    She hesitates, following my gaze. "Uh, hm, I'm not sure who you're pointing out exactly, so."

    She gives me a sideways look before turning her back on me like I'm unwell. I look back at the display and the woman—the woman's right. There's nobody standing there.

    "Oh," I say quietly. She's stopped giving me attention, focusing on her phone now. "He must have moved."

    I don't need coffee, I reaffirm. I need sleep.

     Stepping out of line, I turn for the door. As I push out of the crowd, I meet the same cool blue gaze, less amused and more pointed now. There's something mischievous in his sharp eyebrows. They hang low over his eyes like his expression's taking cover. He's smirking as he leans on the wall right beside the doorframe. The look says he and I are in on a secret. Which we aren't. I don't know this man from Adam.

     I glare at him as I grab at the door handle. The look is supposed to say I don't find you nearly as amusing as you find yourself. The look is supposed to say don't try me. The look is supposed to say stay away from me.

     It must not be saying anything though because the boy straightens and says suddenly, "You can see me."

SINCLAIR

     "You can see me."

     It is an accusation and a declaration and maybe even an exclamation. I'd drown in this knowledge if I wasn't already dead. I'd die again from shock. He can see me!

    I'm staring at this guy hard, refusing to let this moment pass. Refusing to lose him. The guy makes a face, like he's annoyed but he also thinks I'm stupid, and then he rolls his eyes before pulling the door open. He walks out without responding, and I follow, wanting, needing, a verbal confirmation on what he's already starting to conclude.

     "You can see me," I repeat walking beside him as the guy starts down the block.

     "An observation like that doesn't really bear repeating," he responds coldly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his suede jacket.

    I picks up my pace so I can gain a step in front of him, blocking his path. "You don't understand," I say quickly. "I'm dead."

     The guy comes to a halt, but doesn't say anything so I repeat myself, "I'm dead."

    "I heard you," he says.

     "Exactly, you heard me. You hear me. And you can see me."

     "Your comedy is the least amusing thing I've come across," the guy responds slowly. "Please step out of my way."

     "Okay, first of all, my comedy is excellent. I was actually voted class clown in eighth grade, so. But I digress because I'm not even joking around here, buddy—"

     The guy all but flinches. "I'm not your buddy."

     "Right, well, I don't really know your name so. You're really making me lose my point, here. I am, very sincerely, in the sincerest of ways, dead. I mean, you were there in the Starbucks. Why do you think nobody reacted to what I was doing? They couldn't see me. Because I'm dead."

     "Clearly everybody was apart of your little skit. I don't know what I walked into but I know what I'm not staying for and that's this conversation."

     He steps around me with a wide berth. We don't touch, not that we could touch, since I have a tendency to go through people. Not objects, but that's a new thing. In the beginning, I had no reach into the world.

     I turn and watch him walk, waiting for him to stop at a blacked out sports car, tints, rims and all. It's unexpected and unexpectedly hot. A car says a lot about a person.

    I watch as he walks to the driver's side and gets in. I hear the engine roar, loud, an eight cylinder maybe. He peels out of the spot smoothly. I give him a few feet before I transport myself into his passenger seat.

    As the guy swerves into oncoming traffic, I can see how, in retrospect, this probably wasn't my safest idea. Safe for him, anyway. It's safe for me, clearly, cause I'm already dead.