Remember this week’s three words for your mini-story? Videos. Apron. Train.

Marissa counted. Fifteen people in line at Starbucks and she was number eight. She had never been to this particular Starbucks before but the familiarity of the brand comforted her.

Just yesterday, she moved into a Mid-Wilshire one bedroom apartment. The place was dark, ragged, and lacked air conditioning but she could afford it and it was only two blocks from Southwestern Law School.

Again, she counted. Five days until the first day of school. Five days until her personal life was put on pause. Five days before beginning three years of unmitigated stress and anxiety. What was she doing, going to law school? She didn’t even like to read.

Brandon counted. He was ninth in line at Starbucks. He had missed the metro train to Santa Monica but the next train was due in fifteen minutes. The station was just half a block away. If he could secure his double espresso in the next seven minutes, he should be on the platform, coffee and breakfast in hand, with a couple of minutes to spare. He might be a few minutes late to the partners’ meeting but only Trevor would notice and so who cares?

Marissa looked behind her. Every head was pointed down along the line, chins nearly touching chests, identical thumbs thumbing tiny lit screens. She wondered what they were doing. Checking email? Setting up the next hook-up? Watching cat videos?

Like a prairie dog emerging from a hole, one male head slowly raised and met Marissa’s green eyes. There was a rather gorgeous man, standing right behind her in line. He was handsome in the way she liked: tall with a thin face, large expressive brown eyes, and just the right amount of scruff.

Brandon smiled at Marissa. “Look!” He gestured towards the front with a nod of his head.

She turned and saw the normal bustle behind the Starbucks counter. The barista steaming milk in a stainless-steel jug. The broad back of a green-aproned employee handing out white-lidded drinks through the drive-through window. The pink-haired girl using tongs to pull out a heated cinnamon roll.

“I don’t get it,” she said.

“His apron.”

Marissa saw it then. The cashier was taking money at the register. A friendly-faced man with thinning ginger hair and freckles, he wore the same Starbucks apron as his work mates. But instead of his first name over his heart like the others, his apron simply stated, in an unusual font embroidered in red:

apron

They laughed, Marissa covering her mouth with her hand.

“Only in L.A.” he said. “I’m going to post this to Instagram.”

“Wait,” she touched his arm to stop him. “As a future attorney, let me advise you to think very carefully before taking someone’s picture without their permission and making fun of them publicly. Probably not such a good idea.”

He regarded her with a serious expression. “Future attorney, huh?”

“Yup. In about three years, five days, and um, two hours or so. Give or take.”

He gave her a look that seemed filled with colors, shades of emotions, pictures, and something else, something she couldn’t find a word to describe, something that tugged at some deep place within her.

“I probably need an attorney,” he finally said. “How long do I have to wait before I can call you?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Tomorrow. You can call me tomorrow.”