Nebraska

She called him Nebraska from the time they met. He was making coffee at the shop on Pine Street. The baristas were students who came and went. This particular barista gave off a definite aura, like he crackled with electricity. That is to say, he shone. On the day they met, Jazz had a shine of her own.

Nebraska was wearing a bright red shirt. Across the front were the letters that would label him in their future interactions: N-E-B-R-A-S-K-A. He came to the counter and took her order. While he began wielding espresso machine parts, she asked, “Nebraska – are you from there?”

He stopped to look down at the front of the shirt. “No,” he said wistfully, as if Nebraska had been a long ago dream. “I got it at a thrift store. I just liked the way it looked, to be honest. I don’t know anything about Nebraska.”

When he glanced up at Jazz, he had a little light in his eyes and gave her a knowing smile. Jazz smiled too, suddenly aware of the warmth of Nebraska’s shine. And aware that he had chocolate brown eyes with deliciously long lashes.

“I think Bruce Springsteen made an album about it.”

“Really?” Nebraska moved on to frothing milk.

“Yeah. But my memory is, it was kind of dark.”

“Oh, I don’t like the sound of that.” Of course he didn't. Dark and a guy that shines don’t go together.

“Let me see –” Jazz tapped on her phone as Nebraska poured milk carefully into the espresso. “Yup: ‘stark, moody songs about criminals and desperate people.’”

“Whoa, maybe I don’t like this shirt.”

“No, it suits you. I like it.”

“Thanks.” Nebraska handed her the latte. In the foam swam a swan, dripping a chain of hearts from its beak.

“Wow, how did you do that? It's beautiful.” Nebraska shrugged. “It’s so pretty I almost hate to drink it.”

“It tastes as good as it looks.” It did.

The next time Jazz saw Nebraska, he was busy and she was with a friend. She said, “Hi, Nebraska,” when he turned to take her order. He was in a rush, but he took a moment to give her his smile and the flash of light in his dark eyes.

“You remembered,” he said and seemed pleased.

Jazz felt like they had a little secret. How did he do that?

The third time was not a good day for Jazz. Nebraska was at the shop but he was making the coffees and someone else was taking orders. That was ok because Jazz was avoiding people. Nebraska delivered the latte. A flower wrapped in a vine of leaves wound through the foam.

He gave her his smile and surprised her with, “I like your tee shirt.”

She was texting and had barely looked up when the coffee arrived. When Jazz was having a bad day, her world got a lot smaller, and, right now, it was only as big as her and her phone. Looking at Nebraska and his smile, she got caught for a second just staring into his eyes, mesmerized by his focus on her. How deeply could those gorgeous eyes see, anyway, she wondered, and why did a guy have such lovely, long lashes? Jazz broke focus and looked down at her t-shirt. It had a mathematical diagram of a triangle on it and said, Here’s looking at Euclid.

“Oh, yeah –”

“Where did you get it? My roommate’s a math major, he’d like that.”

Jazz told him. He was about to ask her something else when the other counter person interrupted. She wondered what that something else might have been but she never got a chance to ask him. Nebraska went back to work. Jazz walked out with her latte.

She kept meaning to get back to the shop on Pine Street, but it was a little out of the way. When she finally did, Nebraska was gone. The barista delivered Jazz’s latte while chatting with the other counter person. There was a simple and single leaf in the foam and it tasted…well, it tasted just fine.

A few months later, Jazz decided to take a walk up to campus. There was a pretty snow falling outside, what she liked to call fairy-tale flakes. She put her ear buds in and found an Ariana Grande playlist. She walked across the green and stopped to watch the snow, Ariana singing I see it, I like it, I want it, I got it. She stuck out her tongue to catch a few flakes and then turned to get back to her walk and almost bumped into a guy passing behind her. She saw a sweatshirt with WISCONSIN written across it, two hockey sticks crossed underneath. The guy was wearing shorts. Jazz rolled her eyes and stepped forward to continue on her walk. Her boot slipped forwards on the slick snow. Almost in slow motion, the slip sent her awkwardly but softly to sitting on the sidewalk. The guy reached out his hand, looking down at her with concern. And that’s when she saw them – chocolate-brown eyes with deliciously long lashes. The guy was saying something but all Jazz could hear was Ariana: I want it, I got it, I want it, I got it.

She pulled out her ear bud and heard the guy saying, “It’s me, Nebraska. Remember? From the coffee shop.”

“Right. I remember.” She let him help her up to standing. “You distracted me. You should really put some pants on. So are you actually from Wisconsin?”

“What? Oh, yeah.” He laughed. “This one’s for real. I’m from Madison.”

“I missed you at the coffee shop.”

“That was just a first-year gig. But I thought I’d see you again before I left.”

They stood silent for a few seconds – not uncomfortable seconds, just seconds of being surprised by their “meet cute” and not knowing what to say. It was Nebraska who spoke first.

“Hey, I feel like I kind of owe you a coffee.”

“You do?”

“Well, yeah. For leaving without saying goodbye. Do you know the shop in Jefferson Hall?”

“Sure.”

“Would it…I mean…do you want to go have a coffee now?”

“Sure. You kind of do owe me.” They started back across the green. “So, what do I call you? Wisconsin?”

“No, it’s Davis. But I always liked that you called me Nebraska.”

“Ok, Nebraska, my name’s Jasmine but my friends call me Jazz.”

She didn’t believe in meet-cutes or happy-movie endings, but Jazz did suddenly feel something, something deep inside. A flush of heat from the center of her chest spread outwards and smoldered to a slow burn. She stopped to look at Nebraska. He stopped to look at her. As she stood taking him in, Nebraska reached up and gently brushed the snow from her shoulder where she had fallen. They stood for just a few more moments, and then continued on together, walking side by side while the fairy tale snowflakes fell all around them.

💕💕💕💕💕

Francesca Cannan resides in the brave little state of Vermont and enjoys writing fiction and nonfiction exploring the magical in the mundane. She has a BA in Language Arts from Bard College and has published with France Revisited, The Inquisitive Eater and The Ditch Life. She is an avid traveler and foodie and hopes to some day be fluent in Italian, the most romantic language in the world. She is a firm believer that the world is in serious need of more romance.

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