The buzzing in Izar’s ear was rhythmic, matching the vibration crawling up her arm. Slowly, she guided the dremel against the wood, carving down fine particles of the white wood. She paused, stretching her back and shutting off the sander. The radio hummed out “(Don’t Fear) the Reaper” by the Blue Oyster Cult.

“Izzy!” Faruq’s yelled.

Fine wood was drifting down through the light. Izar pulled the handkerchief away from her face, and shook out her hair. A new way of light particles joined the rest. “What!”

The door creaked open, offering new light into the dim room. One light rested directly over the workbench, casting shadows of the tall shelves, shadows that were only slightly displaced from an array of white bulb lights circling the ceiling.

Faruq with his dark hair and thick glasses, wrinkled his nose at the sawdust. “It’s eleven thirty.”

“Oh shit,” Izar unplugged the dremel and started to unbutton the overly large flannel. Faruq’s eyes widened and he turned around. Izar pushed past him into the living room, tossing the flannel near the washer and drier. She disappeared into her room, the door cracked behind her. Faruq switched off the lights in the work room and hovered near the kitchen table. “You can take the car if you want, I’m not going anywhere.”

“No, no,” she came out, tying up her hair, laces of her boots slapping the wood paneling and her jacket swinging wide. “The bus will take me almost there.”

Rain slated against the window. Faruq made a pointed look at the precipitation.

“I’m not Elphaba and I’m not going to melt.” She grabbed a hat from the couch, pulling it over her kinky hair. “I’m Izzy and I’m going to swim through it,”

“Let me at least drive you then. I have to pick up groceries anyway,” He jingled the keys.

Izar rolled her eyes, huffing out a sigh. “Fine.”

After working for five hours at Mason’s Coffee Shop, Izar could feel her heartbeat in the soles of her feet. She could almost feel the shaking in her bones. Though she had arrived slightly early from Faruq’s ride, she had forgotten to grab food, and every small pie and tart that she handed out with the coffee made her stomach grumble.

She was waiting for a new pot of coffee to steep as an impatient customer was tapping his foot. Izar risked a look in his direction and could imagine that he would be the sort of person to request having a wood carving of himself be hung directly over some expensive fireplace.

As if sensing her brief look, he gave her a lewd smile and approached. “Excuse me, miss, is my unleaded skinny dry espresso ready yet? It’s been five minutes and I’m going to be late for a very important meeting.”

Izar wanted to glare at him. She wanted to throw the hot pot of coffee on his face to melt away those pimples. She wanted to quit. So she smiled brightly and said, “Just another moment, sir.”

Who would even order a coffee this late in the afternoon? And in what world does any profession have a very important meeting at five in the afternoon? More like a very expensive meeting with a masseuse.

As she turned, her face fell flat. The rain outside had increased intensity in the afternoon and she could already smell the hords of moist passengers on the 8:46 bus.

With coffee pot in hand, the delicate paper cup facing the customer, Izar slathered on a greasy smile and turned. In the pot itself, a single white bean floated in the saturated water. It flowed with the sloshing of the pot, and tapped against the glass as Izar poured. It rattled on its own and cracked open.

The fracture burst the bean popped and bubbles started pouring out from the bean. It folded onto itself, glimmering white with laces of red. The coffee pot rattled in Izar’s hand, wild enough for the hot glass to make contact with her skin.

An inhale of breath. Relaxation of the muscles. The fall of the pot. Coffee pouring from the paper cup, flowing down the sides of the counter.

The impatient man and Izar watched as the coffee pot fell to the ground, stunned. It seemed to bounce as it hit, but instead of the full piece coming back together, the glass collapsed on itself and the liquid moved upwards. The small white creature in the middle was cocooned in amber coffee, flowing around it as if wings.

Izar jumped as the shattering reached her ears, arms flinched as she hugged herself close, wrist throbbing where the glass burned her. The man had begun yelling how clumsy she was and how he was going to be late for his meeting. Steffanie, the manager of the hour, was rushing out and apologizing profusely him.

Izar knelt by the glass, face heated and tears in her eyes as she started to scrape the shards with her bare hands, a numb blackness settling over her. Another man had once yelled at her like this, and she was an empty shell collecting in all of the anger. Pricks traveled across her hands, small puddles of blood joining the coffee as she tossed glass into the garbage.

Steffanie was making two pots of coffee, bustling around Izar’s knelt form, substituting for Izar’s lack of work. She was trying to see if the man would like a coupon but instead he sniffed and walked out.

“Izzy, wear gloves,” Steffanie whispered before hopping back up to fulfill another order.

Izar nodded, continuing to use her hands as she came to the white object. She was dead eyed enough that it took her a moment to process that the small white object had hopped into her scooping hands, licking at her blood, looking up to her with beady green eyes.

Izar gaped at the creature. It’s white body was smeared with her blood. It looked to be a figurine that she played with as a child, but moving.

Coffee dripped onto her hand as the creature spread wings out and rustled them. It took lick at the blood before curling into her palm, tale wrapped around a small snout. In the small bundle it had formed itself into, she could just barely make out the faint outlines of wings and haunches.

“Izzy,” Steffanie hissed as she had to step over Izar once again.

She looked up startled, feeling drowsy. Maybe she was hallucinating. But when she stood, Izar felt her whole body sway. With her free hand that wasn’t weighed down, (proving that she wasn’t hallucinating. Or that she was hallucinating real bad), she gripped the counter. Blood was staining her white shirt and patches of darker black could be seen on her pants.

She moved into the back room and Steffanie was quickly behind her. “Look, I think you should leave for the day. I don’t know what’s going on, but breaking a full pot? Just go and take some time or something,”

“You’re telling me to leave?” Izar slowly sat in the breakroom chair.

“I can handle it for today. I’ll call in Jeff. We can’t really afford any angry customers.”

“Right.”

Steffanie placed her hand on the knob to go behind the counter again. “Bandage yourself up. You’re okay.”

When Izar was alone, she look at herself. She was a mess of blood and dirt on her knees. Completely unsanitary. It was surprising that Steffanie didn’t suggest that she leave permanently, given that it would be a bit more difficult if Mason found out about the blood exposure behind the counter.

Her hand tightened, the seared skin tightened and the cuts burned. The lightness in her palm reminded herself of the winged creature. Refusing the open her palm in the worry that she would drop the creature, Izar threw on a coat, pulled the hood up, and slowly deposited the creature into her pocket. She left the backdoor and merged into the rain.