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Le Café de Rêveurs was not a particularly remarkable place. The cluttered, occasionally clamorous front rooms of an old retail building were neither home to the district’s best coffee nor its finest design work. It had nice windows, Éponine thought, and a nice collection of books she’d never read, but that was mostly all. It had Marius too, but he could be a downright pain sometimes and those revolutionary friends of his who were always hanging around never tipped enough. But university tuition was expensive, and the job could’ve been worse. Éponine remembered worse.
Behind her Marius coughed, and she realized she’d been daydreaming at the register again.
“Sorry. Um, how may I help you?”
The girl in front of her wore a flowered sundress that was entirely inappropriate for the weather at this time of the year and an even more inappropriately bright smile for such hour of the morning.
“I’ll have a small mocha with caramel and extra milk, please.”
“Your name?”
The girl paused. “Ermintrude Kerfuffler-fuffer.”
“Right.” No one in the history of this earth has ever had that name. “How many f’s is that?”
“Six.” The girl—Éponine refused to call her by the name she’d given—handed her the correct amount of change and sat down at a nearby table to wait.
“She’s cute,” said Marius in a far too knowing tone.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Éponine deadpanned.
“Do you think she’ll come again?”
Éponine handed him a cup. “No idea.”
She could tell she’d misspelled the name by the girl’s quiet laugh when she collected her drink. Éponine hoped she’d find a better place for her caffeine consumption.
Apparently that was too much to wish for. She was back a week later, still dressed for summer, this time under the guise of Billhelma Benoit the Fourth. That’s not even a real name, Éponine thought. She wrote it on the cup, and the girl grinned at her. Marius gave her at least three funny looks when he thought she wasn’t looking.
Bridget “Blue Cheese” Le Blanc. Quatre-vignt-neufsaid. She was “the Ultimate Paintbrush” the first time one of her visits coincided with a meeting of Marius’ revolutionaries, and was so caught up in watching the proceedings that Éponine figured she may as well bring the coffee to her table.
“Thank you,” she said, gazing with a sort of startled admiration at Éponine’s hands, brushing against them with her fingertips as she took her drink.
Éponine could only nod, retreat back behind the counter where Marius waited with his perceptive eyes.
“Did you talk to her?” he asked, and she didn’t bother replying.
One day Serafina Salamander picked a selection of e.e. cummings poetry off one of the shelves, and the next day Éponine marked J.J. McDougall’s cup with nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility. A few days later, Helena of the Hats deposited a drawing of a flower in the spare change jar.
“You should really talk to her,” said Marius.
Éponine was so used to ignoring him by now that it didn’t prove particularly difficult.
I’ve only read three of the books on my university syllabus, she wrote on the wrapper of Agnes Arizona’s croissant. The response came scrawled on the back of a library receipt slipped to her in passing. I’m far less elegant than people give me credit for. Truthfully I prefer to be quite silly.
I make terrible coffee.
Your coffee is less terrible than your coworker’s. I’m an insufferable idealist.
Dreams are a good thing. I don’t know what mine are.
You’ll find something. I can’t stand wearing winter clothes but I love the season.
It’s my favorite, and I’ve noticed. I spend most of my time staring broodily out the window.
I’ve noticed too.
“Have you talked to her yet?” Marius asked, and Éponine shook her head.
“I’ll have—
“A mocha, with caramel and extra milk.” Éponine almost smiled. “I remember.”
You’ve noticed me?
You’re someone worth noticing.
Éponine had her order ready early the next day, and she never came. Weeks passed.
“I’m sorry,” Marius said, and Éponine shook her head.
The café grew noisier as summer arrived. Too noisy. Customers crowded the plaza, far too many of them for such an unremarkable place, and it kept Éponine busy. The revolutionaries were still as rowdy as ever, and they still didn’t tip well, although Courfeyrac did fix their wifi. There was still no sign of a flower dress.
Éponine found herself going through the motions one morning—mocha, caramel, extra milk—one rare day without patrons to keep her distracted. She spun around in frustration to dump it in the garbage and there, standing in the doorway—a purple skirt patterned with pale rosebuds.
“Cosette,” the girl said, “my name is Cosette Fauchelevent.”
Éponine passed her the cup with shaking fingers, almost smiled.