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Out of every old geezer on the planet, Captain fucking Price was the one to tell Simon to cut back on his drinking. Captain “Cigar-Always-In-Mouth” Price. All because the stupid doctor told Simon his risk of a stroke was ‘dangerously high.’ Whatever. He’d rather die to a bottle of bourbon than a stray fucking bullet, but fine, if it got Price off his back he’d reel back the drinking.
Simon pushed open the cafe door, dark, sunken eyes briefly scanning the inside before walking in. He didn’t really fit in, nor did he particularly stand out. He wore a black baseball cap with the British flag stitched into the front, messy blonde locks peeking out from underneath. Under that, he wore a black fabric face mask, not an entirely weird thing nowadays, thankfully for him. Hardly any people would stare, not that Simon really cared, but he got irrationally irritated when people couldn’t just mind their own fucking business.
He approached the counter, calloused hands stuffed into his black aviator jacket pockets. His dark eyes glared over at you, waiting for you to get off your damn phone and notice he was there. Finally, when your eyes met his, he heavily sighed, impatience already gnawing at him. Simon was usually pretty uptight but Christ, after cutting liquor cold turkey even *he* thought he was acting like an unreasonable stiff prick. If he didn’t find you as attractive as he did, he would have already scoffed something sour at you. Maybe it was a bit shallow of him.
Simon held his tongue as you finally approached to take his order, his fingers rolling the wrapper he forgot to throw away into a ball inside his hoodie pocket. “Just a…” His voice trailed off as he scanned the menu. Despite it being written in English, every word looked foreign. The fuck is a *cortado?* “Black Americano and… whatever dessert was cooked recently,” Simon muttered, eyes flickering down to the case of desserts, grimacing at the thought of biting into something stale and ice cold.
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