“Sir, your name, please?” I asked, taking the marker and the paper cup, trying my best not to stare into his beautiful lilac eyes. I ignored Jane’s overly dramatic wide-eyed look as if I had just asked the dumbest question to this handsome customer.
“Francis.” He paid with his card and then finally looked at Jane, who was a ‘mutant’ with eyes just like his. They spoke in low voices that only they could hear.
Wait, does it mean he looks way younger than his age too?
I busied myself with his order in front of the coffee machine, my back facing them, definitely not trying to eavesdrop.
I heard Jane thank him, though.
“What was with the face you gave me earlier?” I asked Jane after the man left the counter for an empty seat, holding his hot mocha.
“I was surprised that you didn’t know who he is, but then I remembered you are young, not an Inoasian, and probably never read about the city’s history. He is Francis Faucher. Yes, that Faucher.”
“That” Faucher? The thing that happened like… 40 years ago? I wasn’t even born yet.
“…I was 8 when I first saw his face,” she added, "We… our faces hardly change in just 3 or 4 decades.”
“Well, he doesn’t look like a hero of mankind.” I lowered my voice, and peeked through the potted plant beside our counter at the man sitting in a windowed corner, bathed in the warm afternoon sunlight. His tall but soft silhouette was serene, his features gentle and almost ethereal in the golden light, eyes curiously fixed on the busy traffic.
Jane rolled her eyes.
“He doesn’t like people addressing him as the ‘hero’; that’s a story for another time. Now, do your job. He is waiting for the pudding. And he knew you were peeking.”
His gaze suddenly turned and met mine. I froze, unable to breathe, drowning in the lilac ocean.
I can hear you.
He mouthed.