#(from main zazzalils-arms)

[sansheritageposts]

@finally-figured-it-out i'm so sorry. i'm so sorry. i'm so sorry. i am so, so sorry.

[aceday]

Jazzalil 61

Zazzalil had never liked drawing. She didn’t have the patience or the effort to really enjoy it. She never knew if she was good and the random doodles scattered around her homework were never enough for her to be able to tell.

But then Zazzalil went into engineering in college, which took an absurd amount of outlining and framework and drawing that required rulers that Zazzalil continuously forgot or lost, though she quickly figured out that the steady hand she didn’t realize she had would be just enough to bullshit her professor.

It was a strange transition, from doodling on her paper to relying on the sharpest hand she could maintain to keep up her grades. That was what started it, she supposed.

The café down the street was small. There wasn’t a lot of floor space, but it had an upstairs and a downstairs depending on how quiet a space the customer wanted. Zazzalil, completely unable to work in the dead quiet of her dorm, preferred doing her homework in the downstairs area of the café to anything else.

Of course, none of the decision had to do with the insanely cute barista with the dark eyes and the curly hair that she would sometimes watch as she zoned out over her calculus homework.

That was how the drawing started.

In class, Zazzalil found herself flipping to a new page in the notebook she’d gotten for engineering, and her hand flit around the page as a familiar pair of dark eyes lingered in her mind.

Zazzalil began to draw whenever she had free time. Class, homework, and then a return to the blank pages of her notebook to perfect her little drawings of the barista.

She hadn’t meant to get caught. Of course, usually no one means to get caught, but it particularly embarrassed Zazzalil because she already felt that she made a fool out of herself whenever she ordered from the barista, always stumbling over her words and melting into a stuttering, blushing mess by the time the transaction was over.

Zazzalil was hunched over her notebook, adding final touches to a rather large drawing of her favorite barista in the pair of glasses she came in with once. She hadn’t even noticed the large mocha with a heaping mountain of whipped cream on top placed in front of her on the desk. She hadn’t noticed a particular barista standing directly in front of her. At least, not until she cleared her throat.

Zazzalil snapped the notebook shut on top of her hand, and she tugged her hand out from between the pages and shook it, cursing slightly.

Zazzalil’s gaze shot up and she made eye contact with the barista. She had seen, oh, she had definitely seen it. Unless she hadn’t? Unless Zazzalil had gotten lucky and the barista was standing over her with a smirk and one eyebrow raised because Zazz had forgotten something?

Her hopes were crushed with four words.

“Were you drawing me?”

Of course, she could deny everything. But a sputtered “of course not” would likely not suffice, and Zazzalil would never come back to the cafe with what little dignity she could retain. So she had to own up to it, that was the only option. And now that the barista was this close in front of her, like a smirking, smug muse, Zazzalil was beginning to notice little mistakes in her drawing.

Her eyes were much softer, despite the smug sharpness of her current expression, than previously determined. Must have been the usual distance. Her mouth was a little wider, a little fuller, more expressive, her hair a little darker. And, of course, she was much, much cuter than Zazzalil thought she would ever be able to capture.

When the barista’s eyebrows shot up, Zazzalil realized in horror that she must have said that part out loud.

“Can I see it?” She asked. It was at this point that Zazzalil was ready to chuck the whole notebook in the trash can and leave, but she hesitantly opened up the page, skipping past her engineering notes and ideas and going faster when she came upon the little doodles of the barista she had started with. The barista craned her neck over when Zazzalil stopped at the drawing, her impossibly high dark eyes flicking across the page.

Zazzalil blushed, not just because of the closeness but because she had begun to feel a little self conscious. She was quiet for what seemed like forever before she smiled and looked back up at Zazzalil.

“It’s really good,” she said. In spite of herself, Zazzalil smiled at the compliment. She didn’t know how to go forth. Did she apologize, ask her out? She didn’t seem mad.

“Thanks,” Zazzalil replied, her voice cracking ever so slightly. The barista quickly looked her up and down, her arms crossing over her chest, and her smile grew.

“My name is Jemilla.”

Jemilla. Zazzalil tried to resist the urge to say it herself. Tried to.

“Jemilla,” the name rolled off of her tongue so pleasantly, so neatly. Zazzalil wondered if she was always as composed as she seemed, if she had a temper, what her pet peeves were, if she liked girls, if she liked her, if she had pets, if she had siblings, if she tasted like the mochas Zazzalil had so come to associate her with. Instead she opened her mouth and said, “that’s a very pretty name.”

“Thank you,” Jemilla replied in a way that made it seem like she was waiting for Zazzalil to continue. Continue with what? Oh, yes.

“I’m Zazzalil.”

“Zazzalil,” Jemilla repeated, not as slow, but it still made Zazz’s heart thump loudly in her chest. The cute barista, who had been the subject of Zazzalil’s thoughts drawing for so long now, had said her name. “I like your name, too.”

“Th-Thanks.” Damn that stutter.

“Zazzalil,” again. She said it again, “are you busy this weekend?”

Was she busy this weekend? She had a test on Wednesday she was planning on studying for, she promised Keeri they’d go thrifting together, other than that, not really.

“Not really.” Why would she want to know that information anyway? Zazzalil’s mind was a scrambled mess as she tried to piece together was exactly Jemilla was doing or feeling. Her mind just became static deadline hospital sound the moment Jemilla sat across from her.

“You seem to really like it here, but there’s this really great diner just off main campus.”

“Mhm.” What was going on?

“Maybe you’d let me take you there?”

Zazzalil stared at Jemilla. Why would she want to take her to a diner? That seemed a little strange. Were the mochas better? Did they-

Oh.

Oh.

“Oh! Oh, like. Like a. Like us. Go to the... diner. Food. For food. You and me, at this... diner.” Jemilla was smiling, probably trying not to laugh, and Zazzalil processed the information.

“Yep,” Jemilla said.

“Yes. Yeah. Yeah, I’d love that. That would be really cool. That would... yes. Mhm.”

Jemilla snickered and stood up, “great. Can I see your pencil?” Eyes wide, Zazzalil slowly nodded as she handed off her pencil. Jemilla leaned down, close, so close, and then leaned over the drawing, scribbling something in the corner. Zazzalil was so busy trying to decipher the scent of shampoo among the distinctive scent of coffee beans that lingered around her that she barely even noticed. Then Jemilla straightened, winked, and returned to her place behind the counter.

Had that really just happened?

Zazzalil looked down slowly, really hoping that her face didn’t look as hot as it felt, and felt a stupid grin curl her lips.

In the corner of her drawing, in small, spaced out handwriting and punctuated with a small heart, was a phone number.