Scripts
1405 words
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🞙⬥🞙
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Bag? Check.
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Book? Check
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Laptop? Check.
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Phone, wallet, keys? Check.
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Okay, breathe in, hold, out. Repeat. Remember the script:
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Barista: Hi, welcome to Bittersweet! What can I get for you?
You: Hi, could I have a lavender chai, please? To go?
Barista: Sure, anything else?
You: No, thank you.
Barista: And can I get a name for that?
You: Libby.
Barista: Alright, the total will be $3.75.
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Hand over card, take the receipt, wait for your name to be called, and then sit at a table. Breathe in, hold, out. Repeat.
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Repeat.
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Repeat.
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Libby breathes. She opens the front door of her apartment, locks it, and then waits for the elevator, rhythmically tapping her fingers together. Pointer, middle, skip the ring, pinkie. Pointer, middle, skip the ring, pinkie. Pointer, middle, skip the ring—DING! She startles, her gaze whipping up from the floor.
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The elevator is empty, so she shuffles in, pressing the button for the ground floor. It’s a short ride, from the third floor down, that she spends biting her cheek and tapping her fingers. Pointer, middle, skip the ring, pinkie. Pointer, middle, skip the ring, pinkie.
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When the elevator chimes (she’s ready for it this time) and the doors open, she holds her breath and scurries through the hall toward the exit. Head down, Libby walks as briskly as she can, tote bag clutched tight to her chest. The walk isn’t long, a simple turn left, cross the street, and turn left once more, and then she is outside the café. It’s 3:30 p.m. on a Tuesday, as quiet as the public can possibly be. She breathes, holds it, releases, then pushes the door open.
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Bells jingle, announcing her arrival for—what feels like—the whole world to hear. Libby’s face warms with an embarrassed blush, and she scoots towards the counter. Her script goes practically perfect, only one minor hiccup (they asked for the size, duh, you should have known), and before she knows it, she is settled at a table, warm drink in hand. Closing her eyes, she chants what her therapist has told her for the past three weeks.
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No one is looking at you. Thousands of people go to cafés and get drinks and sit and read, or do work daily. You’re not doing anything out of the ordinary. Sip your chai, pull out your book, and pretend you’re back at home, doing the exact same thing. We’ve practiced for this, we have a script, everything will be okay.
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Everything will be okay.
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It will be okay.
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Libby takes a sip of her drink—so warm and delicious, the different flavors blending into one that almost makes her want to come back—and pulls out her book. She hooks the collar of her sweater over her mouth, allowing herself that method of hiding, and then attempts to get lost in the pages. It takes longer than usual, but Dr. Everick had said that was normal, and to be expected. She isn’t in her comfortable apartment, she’s somewhere new, so relaxing will take a bit of time. It is in her script, so she doesn’t outright panic when ten minutes have passed and she isn’t immersed in the wonderful world of Narnia (a comfort book, recommended by Dr. Everick for her outing).
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Slowly, her surroundings begin to fade away, not too dissimilar from a vignette. All she can see, think, feel, hear is Narnia. She smells the mothballs in the back of the closet, she tastes the snow on her tongue, and she feels the wind as it winds its way through her hair. She shares the betrayal of Edmund with the other Pevensies, she travels through the woods, meets Mr. Beaver, and is ready to fight the White Witch. She meets Aslan and feels herself in awe, despite knowing she had met him dozens of times before, and she—
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“Hello! Do you mind if I join you?”
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Libby freezes. Her eyes flick up toward the stranger, taking in as many details as possible within the second she’s allowed; male presenting, tall, dark hair, doesn’t seem outwardly buff, smiling, holding a drink and a pastry, not blocking her exit, still standing in front of her. She gazes around the café, noting all the empty tables around them. He seems to follow her gaze, and chuckles unselfconsciously (how does one do that?). “Ah, I know there’s a bunch of empty tables, but I love making new friends, even if it’s only for a day. Say, my name’s Robby. Well, it’s actually Robert, but that sounds much too like a grandpa for me.” ‘Robby’ rolls his eyes, seemingly in amusement at his own joke. “So, do you mind me joining you?”
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She blinks at him, glances down at her hands, and does a quick, mental calculation. She slams the book shut, stuffs it into her bag, and barely manages to grab her drink before dashing out of there.
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At least Dr. Everick can’t say she didn’t try.
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🞙⬥🞙
​
Bag? Check.
​
Book? Check.
​
Laptop? Check.
​
Phone, wallet, keys? Check.
​
Okay, breathe in, hold, out. Repeat. Remember the updated script:
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Barista: Hi, welcome to Bittersweet! What can I get for you?
You: Hi, could I have a lavender chai, please? To go?
Barista: Sure, what size?
You: Medium.
Barista: Anything else?
You: No, thank you.
Barista: And can I get a name for that?
You: Libby.
Barista: Alright, the total will be $3.75.
​
Hand over card, take the receipt, wait for your name to be called, and then sit at a table. Breathe in, hold, out. Repeat.
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Repeat.
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In case of strangers approaching, remember the 15 possible scenarios and the corresponding scripts. Breathe in, hold, out. Repeat.
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Repeat.
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Repeat.
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Libby follows the same route as last time: leaving her apartment, locking the door, fidgeting while waiting for the elevator, hurrying down the street, and taking a fortifying pause and breath in front of Bittersweet. She can do this. She walks in, orders her drink, and sits at the same, empty table as last week. It is 3:43 p.m. on a Tuesday, so she knows it won’t be busy, just like how it wasn’t busy last week. Libby sips at her drink, allowing the blend of warm spices and floral syrup to meld on her tongue. It is soothing and grounding, her favorite drink, giving her the strength to pull her book out.
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It’s a different comfort book, instead a non-fiction about marine wildlife—one would think the wide, unknown of the sea would frighten her, but it is strangely calming to know Libby is but one small speck on Earth in comparison to the vastness of the ocean. It only takes her eight minutes to become engrossed in the pages this time (she’s been here before, it no longer feels as much like she’s center stage with a spotlight—just center stage), which she counts as a win. A throat clears next to her, and though she had prepared for this, it still makes her jump and her breath hitch.
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The same stranger from last week stands in front of her, hands empty, a sheepish (sheepish? Maybe? She can’t tell) expression on his face. “Hi, I just wanted to apologize for last week. I didn’t mean to scare you, honest.” Libby sighs in relief; this is one of her scenarios! She scrambles to remember the exact script before speaking.
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“It’s okay. I’m sorry for running off, I’m working on my social anxiety with my therapist, and I hadn’t planned for a conversation with someone other than the barista.” It comes out slightly robotic, her heart pounding in her chest from the, anticipated but still unwanted, interaction with a stranger, as well as sharing her personal struggles with him.
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The stranger’s eyes widen, a small grin etching its way onto his face. “Ah, gotcha. Sorry to disrupt your planning. Would it be alright if I sat with you? I’m fine to sit quietly, but I get it if that’s too much.”
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Libby bites her cheek, taps her fingers, but reminds herself she prepared for this 15 times over. She nods, stiffly gesturing to the chair across from her. The stranger beams and sets his coat down before going and ordering from the counter. He returns quickly, a cup and pastry in hand. “I’m Robby, by the way, in case you didn’t get it last time.”
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The corner of her mouth inches upward minutely. “I’m Libby.”
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🞙⬥🞙