The reservation was placed upon first moving to Destiny city some months ago. In some respects, he felt like he aged a lifetime since then.
When Isaiah passed through the glass doors of the CatFé, he did not feel the same excitement acted upon when he purchased the reservation (although he still found it terribly cute that the clickable button read ‘purrchase’). In its place he felt a need for companionship that enunciated its demands clearly. Cats held exactly that - they expected no more than food, sleep, play, and a place to s**t. Here in the cat café, he knew he had a chance to experience that for himself. However, his time slot was not yet engaged, and Isaiah had a fair fifteen minutes to spend on the café’s menu perusal until he reached his allocated cat visitation hour.
So Isaiah claimed a seat at the bar stool, leather pants forming small creases where the material drew up. Elbows absent sleeves lit on the counter while his fingers formed a lattice for his chin. The menu was scanned and confirmed as loaded with coffees, teas, and mug cakes with caloric declarations as well as specificity on items that were gluten-free, dairy-free, and other noted allergens. The café also provided alternatives to those allergic to eggs, nuts, soy or other products and their constituent caloric differences. With isaiah’s calorie count in mind, he knew he could afford exactly one café au lait and one chocolate chip cookie cake. That is, assuming the stated caloric content matched the actual product.
Typically it never did.
It was stockings day, which he tried to keep to once a week and no more even if he had more than one pair of stockings. Being near the University meant there was a better atmosphere for gender fluid identity acceptance, but it was still better left to the clientele to partake regularly than staff. Regardless, the addition of little triangle ears, whiskers and x-marked mouth-noses to his thighs in peripheral vision added a simple pleasure in added cuteness to Quenton’s day. He kept it uniform-esque, wearing white-cat tattoo type nylons with aftermarket, BPN oujisama-lolita shorts and a crisply starched, half-length butler’s jacket and shirt with a coachman’s collar. The heels of his Charlotte Olympia Kitty Kicks didn’t even phase his ease of movement through the cushion-filled space. The college girls already with their cats enjoyed the butler cafe type addition to the cat experience, so they had been addressed with formal honorifics until they were twittering while he gathered up two spent cups from their coffee table. Quenton returned from the cat room with a few feather chasers that needed to be re-fluffified and the cups to find the new addition to the front. “Welcome to Catfé. Do you have a preferred pronoun?”
It took less than a moment to push the two mugs into slots of the small-capacity, green dishwasher that had been built into the wall. A swipe on the tablet brought up the reservations listings in timeslot. An ä actually used? æ and ɛ sounds come from that. ‘Teeth’? There’s an unusual surname- I wonder how the family came by it. God Is Salvation Teeth. Uses teeth for talking? Faust probably weighs more. Maybe a novelty chair on a wall in the catroom where one side a person can sit on a cushion and friends can put cats onto the other cushion. It could slowly even out. It would need hydraulics to ensure no sudden moving for safety. “Reservation for Isaiah Zähne?”
“Can I provide you any refreshment while you wait?” (done)
From years of superficial interest in others, Isaiah learned to display an incredibly convincing poker face. This tactic ensured proper delivery for bluffs in a poker game, seriousness in a pickup line, and respect when bantering with others. He employed that face well the day he lost his engagement. Even now, it often showed when dealing with particularly difficult clientele that filtered into his pawn shop and demanded a dollar over a dime.
However, that face only proved beneficial when he prepared himself to use it.
In entering a cat cafe, Isaiah expected little more than a handful of waitresses, possibly dressed in cat ears or other cute paraphernalia, and a surfeit of cats. He did not, in any permutation divined by walking to the location, expect to find a veritable supermodel parading through the cafe in stockings, ‘kitten heels’, and a heavily butler-themed upper outfit. The booty shorts and stockings themselves accented an impossibly superb set of legs and a**, to which Isaiah’s gaze was magnetically drawn (and no amount of self-discipline had dissuaded him from appreciating fabulous assets). His surprise at the discovery wore plainly on his face for a moment before conscious reconditioning smoothed over his countenance to something more polite and socially-acceptable.
Preferred pronoun. How forward-thinking. He wondered what this blonde might’ve chosen if placed in the same situation. The bottom half said female, the top half said male, and basic arithmetic suggested that English lacked a gender-neutral pronoun that wasn’t as derogatory as ‘it’. “I don’t have a preferred pronoun, but thank you for asking.” He, she, it, Ben Dover. Too bad the latter doesn’t count for a pronoun.
Isaiah shifted in his seat and curled fingers on the counter somewhat stiffly. Part of him wished desperately for looser pants, or a rare moment when he forgot to button up all of the clasps. The pain, of course, throbbed delicately. He tried to ignore it. “Yes, Isaiah Zähne.” He hoped they didn’t often volunteer first and last name of registered customers to any strangers. “I was looking at your drinks,” he started as he gratefully reached for a menu (because staring at cat-shaped cookies might alleviate much of the pressure), “and I’d prefer your cafe au lait. Do you find the calorie count on here to be accurate?” A finger trailed down the page while he struggled to look at anything that wasn’t those legs.
Zähne's attention was unmistakable, and entertaining with the accompanied expression that seemed a mix of disbelief and good fortune. Disbelief at good fortune? He also looked uncomfortable in a slightly pained way. "Measurements are performed in precise a method as possible while preserving relatively expedient service. The café au lait is served in the traditional french style, dark, pressed coffee with steamed milk added. 28 grams of coffee grounds is rationed to each 450 millilitres of water at 95 degrees Celsius for four minutes. All the milk and milk-replacement products we use are homogenized ensuring consistent effect from correct measures. Scientifically, error is unavoidable- some microfoam may stick to the steam cup, for instance. Catfé works to be at the lower end of the 'acceptable' error margin of 4-8%. Our proper café au lait is 88 calories, as listed, with the 4% margin of error creating a curve of 3.5 calories on either side, or 84.5 to 91.5 calories. "
"You're welcome to watch. I am more precise than 4% error. " Leather doesn't have much give, especially not when it is tight enough to be cellophane to begin with. If I paused between those two sentences, it would sound like a comeon. It might still, I can't tell. Not that he looks to need one. Has an interest in men, whether he admits it or not. Should I be flattered, offended? Impolite and impossible to return the favor of forthright appraisal of what's on offer. Indifferent for now- he is a customer here for cats and refreshment.
"Would you like the café au lait? We do allow customization of which coffee and which milk or milk product you'd like on request. Too many options spelled out on the menu overwhelms. "
First, Isaiah could say with absolute certainty that he never met a barista both so informed and so precise at making the drink as depicted in the menu. The fact that he was aware of the margins, let alone better than them, proved a point of serious consideration in his favor. Not only could he present a mean pair of legs, but he could fashion a drink to Isaiah’s persnickety specifications.
“I’m impressed,” he admitted openly. “Even Starbucks likes to disregard its own margins.” Isaiah still had nightmares concerning the documentary that exposed massive nutritional variances in mass-produced foods.
Isaiah leaned forward and rested elbows on the counter, both to disguise the source of his discomfort and to project his interest in examining this man’s barista technique. “A cafe au lait will do nicely, especially if you can demonstrate how you keep under that four percent margin.” Crossing his legs sounded like a bad idea. Shifting around in the chair invited disaster. He felt someone staring at him from across the bar - a brunette girl of high school age was about all he could tell from periphery. She probably knew.
These particular pants weren’t prone to secrecy.
“Skim milk will be fine. No sugar.” Empty carbs, that. “How long have you been working here?” Come on, turn around now. You’ve got something to make. I want to see those legs in action.
Suddenly, he became keenly aware that he’d have to make a precarious and highly important decision: whether to watch the a** in motion or to watch the hands at work with caloric and nutritional balancing.
“You’ll have difficulty seeing everything if you stay sitting. You can move the chair to the side there,” Quenton pointed to the edge of the stand that straddled the usually understood ‘offlimit’ barista area from the general cafe. Zähne gave no preference on the specific coffee type. It was going to take a few minutes to prepare the order, so according with social-barista requirements Quenton offered explanations while he acted. First was pulling a sealed container from an eye level shelf, and removing an exact measure of beans to grind. “For the truest flavor of coffee, we use beans no more than a week ‘off roast.’ This is a single origin, green-buyer micro roast called Partly Cloudy Monday. They roast this at 225 degrees Celsius. It flavors the overall experience of the coffee at the second crack, and the caffeine content is lower than lighter roasts. The overall profile should taste spicy.”
As though he’s actually interested in the drink being made? I wonder what part is his preference. People say they first notice eyes, the sham of surveys, but that’s definitely not what he’s keyed up from. ‘Unfriendly,’ or ‘Intimidating’ eyes according to classroom reviews... The sound of a grinder, then the correct amount of water from a filtered pull set to a specific temperature was added. “Catfé opened in May of this year, so about four months working here. I’ve always made my own personal teas, though, on a lesser scale. “
Quenton left the status of employee deliberately vague. Imperial Lord Ouija and the other cats were the showcase of most of the presswork, photos and copy, so he wasn’t worried about being recognized as the owner. Those who come to cat cafes like cats to begin with. Or just seek an novelty and don’t mind them, at least. Here’s to seeing where you’re watching.
Quenton opened the small refrigeration unit with a step to a hands-free release, but bent from the waist to pull the Skim Milk from its row. He paused long enough to glance at the date and double-check it was fronted correctly
before looking up, over his shoulder, to Zähne. “Frothed and Steamed Milk are different, one leaning on microfoam and the other on little foam and mostly temperature.”
Straightening, Quenton assembled the milk and pitcher to the steaming wand. Again, he worked while explaining, using a long wand-scoop to help pour and point out measurement markers. “The frothing pitchers are kept the same temperature as the milk, in order to be able to feel when the vessel is what they call 'blood warm'. It's important, because that the flavor of the milk is altered if it is heated beyond 71.1 degrees Celsius. We do have thermometers to double check.”
Terribly cute cat mug, drink, and it’s saucer were set before Isaiah in about 6 minutes from the start. “Let me know what you think.”
"On that wall there are pictures and bios for each of our resident cats. All of them, except the giant black beast there pawing at Tarquin, are available for adoption. That gem is the shop cat, His Imperial Majesty Lord Ouija. The toys are all free for use. Please enjoy.”
Yes, definitely met my match in neuroses. He custom blends teas and negotiates their purchase. I’m not sure whether to be shocked or impressed. Why not both. A blend of the two likely showed on his face, whether he intended it or not.
“Seems like I’m awfully thirsty,” he commented ambiguously, and smiled. Fingers splayed over the rim and he picked the mug up thusly. He held it in a manner that hopefully drew more attention to the mug itself than the raging interest he held in the barista. Briefly he considered all the ways that he could assist in removing those cat stockings at the end of the day, or aesthetic and avant garde locations to hang those shorts. The lampshade seemed a common and acceptable choice, but he rather liked the bookcase. But Quenton spoke of cats now, and not quite anything related to fantastical bedroom opportunities, which dampened his spirits somewhat, but he forced himself to listen beyond his own carnal interests.
“So you don’t hang around and supervise while someone’s with the cats?” That’s disappointing. He imagined, then, that Marinus must be the only barista around - or they had requirements to keep the counter attended at all times and the remainder of the shift had other assignments. The info concerning cat bios would’ve been useful to know before, but Isaiah intended to scope the feline biographies after his time slot expired. Judging by what he saw of the tablet, he expected that Marinus already activated his session.
Shifting his attention to cats helped lessen the painful burden of staring Marinus down and visualizing the man in varying states of undress. When he walked, he no longer felt quite so certain that his pants would rip in half at any stride greater than a shuffle. He walked toward the cat room, coffee still strategically held and back gratefully to the counter. Mentally he mulled over the rules again to confirm - no picking up cats, no pulling them onto lap (and the only ‘cat’ here worth pulling onto his lap… No, that was a thought for another time), don’t allow the cats to have the coffee. All easy enough to accomplish with vigilance.
He wondered, briefly, if he could lure Marinus into the cat room with questions. As he walked, Isaiah cast one over shoulder. “Those stockings are something else. Where did you get them?”
“It’s more like being a waiter at a restaurant- attentive the the needs of guests and checking on them, but not supervising and watching every moment, no. It would be intrusive and creepy, and interrupt the peace and relaxation of the atmosphere we hope to provide to patrons and the cats. “ It was answered with the same tone of polite, professional respect as would be used by a concierge or maître d'hôtel. Internally, the question found more curiosity and mulling over as to its purpose. It was the sort of thing Alois would have asked right before doing something potentially dangerous or hurtful to an animal without considering the ramifications of harm to himself, other guests, the location, or the animal in question. Do I need to be supervising you through your whole visit, Zähne? Or are you probing to see if this will be a good location to make illicit contacts and selling Molly under the table? Aren’t we the suspicious one today, Thraen. He might just have high anxiety. Or-
The question thrown back over shoulder, in spite of every reason and social cue that their interactions were primarily completed until check out or desire of more coffee or goods, returned considerations to the more obvious. Or he’s chatting you up because of remaining interest in duvet tentpoles. He’s been staring at your stockings for fifteen minutes- think like a normal person for a change. This is where you keep chatting, displaying the choice that you are willing to be open and get to know the person a little more, or answer in a small direct and end the conversation.
He shifted, setting the sign on the stand that said where he was, his number to text, as well as an arrow to an electronic meow-bell to get his attention if someone needed him, and started to follow to the cat room. “The Internet- a site called Sock Dreams that has operated out of Portland Oregon since 2000. Do you like stockings?”
Or just legs?
”I’ve worn stockings a handful of times, but I’ve always had twiggy chicken legs that don’t look terribly flattering in something so revealing of body tone.” At least even his painted-on leathers afforded a little leeway in concealing the swells and dips of his legs from becoming obvious shadows. It was part of the attraction of Quenton’s own stockings, and in part due to his confidence in being able to wear them. It’s been years, though, and I used to be a lot skinnier.
“Anything out of Portland, Oregon has to be weird, doesn’t it? Having cats on them is certainly creative.” The last time I was out there entailed the purchase of a multithousand dollar love doll and its transportation for another client… Can’t say I’ve had any standard experiences out of there.
The explanation for the choices at the CatFé made some sense, but contradicted other common policies. “I see. That’s unusual, isn’t it? Of the adoption places I’ve visited, they always stand in to supervise the customers and the cats. I imagine some small child isn’t going to know to be quiet around them. Not that it’s a bad thing - I assume it’s nice to not have someone breathing down your neck while you touch furry things.” Though I wouldn’t mind it if it was Marinus.
He paused at the separating door leading toward the cat room, where he could see through the glass panels toward all the cage-free felines within. Most lounged on higher ledges, while a few remained on pillows or sprawled over carpet. His hand rested on the handle, and there was marked hesitance in his movements. Apprehension seized him for a moment and he couldn’t swallow it. But it dissipated soon afterward, leaving no mark of its initial arrival - afterward, he looked much the same as before. “I suppose I’ll see you in a few minutes, then.” Unless Marinus felt amicable enough to come with.
As he pushed past the door, coffee in hand, he mentally reminded himself that he wasn’t here to get attached.
Ivynian
for logging!
