Cupcake by Rachel Cohn Page B

investment of time and trust that might have clued him in that the real reason for my tears had nothing to do with my hangover and his disappointment in me, but with a New-Old frustration with myself.
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    ***
    SIXTEEN
    Turns out there is decent coffee to be found in this city. I just
    didn't look hard enough. The perfection was right under my nose-- literally.
    The perfection could be found thanks to a voice mail left on my cell phone in the middle of the night by my friend Helen back in San Francisco. "CC, oops you did it again is right! But don't panic. Pharmaceutical conglomerates more likely interested in positive profit margins rather than in selflessly serving women's health crises have devised a solution to your negative situation. It's called the morning-after pill. Ask for it at Planned Parenthood ASAP, and have a nice, relieved day. Call me after. Dumbfuck."
    My heart and head eased by Helen's message, I stumbled out of bed at noon on The Day After, only to be urgently informed by my stomach that the last step on my hangover recovery program would
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    require a pizza slice. Although the corner pizza place was not the best place to grabba slice in the neighborhood (the best place would be Pedro's place of employ), it was the nearest, as hangover head demanded a slice within a one-block walking radius of the apartment (catch up with you later, Pedro). So imagine my shock when I took on the hardship of this half-block walk to the pizza place, only to see a sign taped in the window: CLOSED TODAY DUE TO ELECTRICAL FIRE. Horror.
    And yet, my nose was not entirely displeased. Because from where I stood, at this corner block that usually smelled of cheese, tomato sauce, and beer, my nose picked up instead the scent of rich, pungent, heart-rate-racing coffee. What the Kona? Perhaps the upside of the posthangover haze was a heightened sense of smell, but... holy cowabunga caffeination!
    I eyed the neighboring shops, trying to home in on the heavenly scent's beacon. My eyes spied a faded sign with missing letters at the shop next door to the pizza place.
    LU_CH_ONE_TE
    Really?
    Somehow in all my time either visiting with Danny or living with him on this block, I'd never taken particular notice of this rundown lunch shop; it flew completely off the radar of this San
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    Francisco coffee snob. If it's true that people judge books by their covers, then I had judged the luncheonette by its exterior window, which offered a view inside of a long old-fashioned Formica counter, Dairy Queen--type booths against the side walls, and fold-up bridge tables and chairs randomly strewn around the rest of the available space. The place was peopled by a smattering of old folks playing chess or cards, and blue-collar worker types, the work-boot-wearin', regular coffee drinkin' folk who definitely do not flock to the decaf skim vanilla soy latte establishments of the laptop/cell-phone-using student or yuppie set. It was the kind of ancient, real-deal cool mom-and-pop place you just knew was on its way out--soon to be replaced by yet another Gap or Starbucks, once the lease ran out and the building owners jacked up the rent in order to get the old tenants out. Why go in and get attached only to get your heart broken when the LU_CH_ONE_TE sign got replaced by one that would drop no letters to spell out: L-I-Q-U-I-D-A-T-I-O-N.
    But that smell. I had to take the risk.
    I barged inside and walked up to the counter. A young goth-punk of unknown age--hard to tell specifically, what with his shaved head, goateed chin, tunneled ears, nose and lip rings, fully tattooed arms, and heavy black eyeliner--stood at the cash register, playing on a Game Boy.
    "May I have a cappuccino, please?" I asked. I wanted straight-up
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    capp simplicity. No flavored shots, no particular milk requests, no demands for diorama latte art formed in the coffee/foam mixture. Etc. My heart beat extra fast in anticipation. I knew I'd found the promised land. While my actions