In a dimly lit room, adorned with faded wallpaper that has a pattern vaguely similar to seersucker, an array of mismatched chairs and small tables between them, Hilary Lauderjames sits surrounded by several people of varying ages. Their faces hold a combination of compassion and attentiveness, like voyeurs peering into the intimate nooks and crannies of her life. She squirms, nervously adjusting her posture in a worn, mauve armchair, struggling to summon the courage to speak.

Hilary would much rather talk with someone in a private setting, but being a barista at the Lucky Bean Bungalow doesn't come with those kinds of health benefits. Actually, they don't have benefits at all. After the tragedy she endured and the two weeks she's been away, Hilary assumed that her manager Chadley would have gotten her some better professional help, but he insisted on the state-funded group therapy. But with the trauma still fresh in her mind, being cheap just wouldn't cut it.

*👩‍🦳*

Although she has come to this place every Wednesday for almost a month now, the group therapist, Dr. Thrussell, still gives her the jitters. Due to a deep-seated fear of large teeth and wide smiles that she's had since she was seven, Hilary often has a bundle of knots in her stomach when she beholds Dr. Thrussell's Willem Dafoe-like visage. Despite his appearance though, he's a kind and patient man who has gone above and beyond to help Hilary through the post-traumatic stress ailing her.

With a thin and seemingly expensive silver tablet in his hand, the doctor leans forward, his warm, hazel eyes fixed on Hilary. He taps on the screen and types a few things, unleashing a cacophonous mix of haptic feedback and keyboard clicks that urge Hilary to softly grind her teeth from the annoyance. "Okay, Hilary, you've been coming here for quite some time, but you barely say a word. Why is that?"

Hilary hesitates, tightening her grip on the chair's armrest as she digs her chipped, emerald nails into the upholstery. "Um, I just prefer to, uh, listen. That's all."

"Hmm, I see," Dr. Thrussell taps on the screen of his tablet again. The noise makes Hilary's nose flare. "Well, that's understandable, but this is a safe space. We're here with open hearts and minds, ready to listen to, as well as to support you. With that being said, it's about time that you tell us what happened a month ago. I guarantee that you'll feel better once you do."

Hilary takes a deep breath, attempting to break free of the reluctance binding her. She is incensed by the doctor's insistence on opening up, but is also aware that it's now or never to rid herself of this horror. Although therapy caters to these situations, she sees a familiar face within the circle and wonders if expounding upon the incident will trigger him. After all, he was once a regular patron of the Lucky Bean, but he hasn't returned since that fateful night and she's been obsessing over his absence. Why didn't he return like everyone else?

After much hesitation, Hilary finally speaks. Her voice quivering as she begins her tale.

"Well, it all started on a Friday evening at the Lucky Bean Bungalow. It, uh, had been a pretty regular night thus far. I was working the counter, serving up lattes and making sure that the usual crowd of D&D players had everything they needed, when the door suddenly burst open." Hilary's hands tremble something awful as she proceeds to recount the shocking moment. "To my surprise, there stood a elderly woman with shoulder-length gray hair. She had to have been no taller than four feet, but she was wielding a shotgun that seemed larger than she was."

Feeling parched, Hilary pauses to reach for a small cup of water on the table next to her. She is shaking too much to drink it, however, so she puts the cup down and spills some water as she does. Dr. Thrussell notices this, but waves away the notion to remark on it even though he loathes messes being made.

"But, yeah… the lady was petite and pretty frail-looking. That shotgun though? Well, it was the scariest thing I'd ever laid eyes on."

Dr. Thrussell chimes in. "And in what way was this shotgun so scary to you?"

"Um, this may sound crazy, but it had a kind of 'demonic aura' to it? I guess that's right to say. It was like something out of a horror movie though, but like one from the Eighties where people tried all kinds of crazy stuff to frighten people. I never could sit through those."

"That sounds pretty terrifying," Dr. Thrussell weakly chuckles as a murmur of sympathy blended with amusement ripples through the room.

"It was, doc, but I could do without you providing condescending remarks. This is hard enough as it is to relive."

"I didn't mean to sound condescending, Hilary. Your trauma is serious, so I apologize if it appears that I was making light of it."

"Yeah, whatever," Hilary sneers. She's prepared to continue, but feels like she's back at square one after how long it took to muster the courage.

As she works through the awkwardness she's feeling, an Asian woman wearing heart-shaped glasses and sitting in the fuchsia-colored folding chair to her left, reaches out and grabs her hand. This initially startles Hilary, mostly because the lady is elderly like the woman in her story, but upon looking at the lady's sweet and innocent face, she relaxes. They both smile at each other, which helps Hilary proceed with detailing more of what happened.

"So anyway, the old lady shouted, 'This is a fuckin' stick-up! Not a one o' you better move or I'll put a hole in ya' the size of a moon crater!' I was shocked by how strong her voice was, especially considering her appearance."

"Looks can be deceiving, Hilary. It's best not to write someone off because of their guise," noted Dr. Thrussell. "What did you do once she said that though?"

"Well, she told us not to move, so I froze. I mean, I didn't know what to do in that situation. We never ran any drills for that particular event. There's no ‘Being Robbed By Geriatrics 101’ course given to us during orientation."

Dr. Thrussell rubs the bridge of his nose, stifling a laugh. "That may be the case, Hilary, but something must have clicked in your head, right? You must have felt some urgency to try and empathize with her. You know, see why she was going through all this trouble?"

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"Hell no! I had no such feeling or thought then. I just wanted to get away and hide in the storage closet. It's my favorite place to go when I'm stressed."

"That's understandable. A circumstance like that will make anyone fret, but there are also those who will rise to the occasion and be a hero. It's not uncommon."

Hilary glowers at the doctor. "Well, that's them. I wasn't about to have the wall painted with my guts and spine fragments." 

The ice-cold glare said a mouthful, so Hilary didn't have to utter another word. The doctor subsequently concludes that she's exasperated, so he moves the conversation along. "Do you recall how the customers reacted?"

"Well, they didn't freeze, that's for sure. They screamed like banshees and ducked for cover."

Dr. Thrussell offers a mild nudge. "And then?"

"And then," Hilary started, "she tried to shoot me, which I had been aiming to avoid by staying still. There was a fire in her eyes though, it made it seem like I had been a target all along. It was also odd that she said it was a robbery, but was going to blast me before I could get anything out of the register. Not that there was much in there to begin with."

"And how did that make you feel?"

"It scared the fuck out of me! I didn't want to die. Like, I have problems with my life, but I wasn't ready to go. Luckily for me, her hands were hella trembling, so she couldn't aim. The blast went wide, and instead of hitting me, it destroyed some poor dude's laptop." She drops her head, recalling the laptop's demise.

The familiar face that Hilary observed earlier, an African-American man with dreadlocks who looks to be in his mid-twenties, interposes. "I remember everything you're saying. That was my laptop, by the way, and I'd just finished my thesis. Poof! All of my hard work, gone in an instant."

Hilary nods, her empathy extending to him. "I'm extremely sorry about that. I wish there was something I could do to reverse it all."

The young man throws a hand up. "It's all good. Not your fault at all. Still, I can't return to the Lucky Bean for as long as I live. It just fills me with rage even walking past the place."

Upon hearing that, the obsession over why she had not seen his face anymore was satiated, but knowing the truth doesn't bode well. She's had a crush on him since he first showed up at the Lucky Bean, but was too shy to ask him out. All they've ever done are exchange glances and brief smiles, but the latter was enough to leave Hilary completely smitten.

*👩‍🦳*

She knows next to nothing about him—well, outside of his preference of beverage and that he insisted on being close to the Wi-Fi router, that is—though that's never deterred her with guys before. What she did know was that he was young, statuesque and ravishing, possessing an aura of quiet confidence that captivated and made her heart flutter each time he strolled in.

His dreadlocks framed his face like a halo, cascading in intricate patterns. Each lock seemed to have a story of its own, a testament to the patience and care he invested in their maintenance. Those ebony strands alone held an inescapable allure, their depth and richness paralleled only by the richness of his mahogany skin.

His hooded, russet brown eyes shimmered with an inner light, sparkling like gems when the mid-day sun poured through the café's windows. Enigmatic and dreamy, Hilary couldn't help but to find herself being drawn into their depths, making her wonder what mysteries lay behind those captivating orbs.

His face remains, even now, a harmonious blend of strength and gentleness. High cheekbones provided a sculpted elegance, while his jawline was chiseled, adding a ruggedness to his appearance that strangely enough, made her feel safe. His lips were soft and inviting like the petals of a delicate flower, poised to break into a smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts.

Her infatuation with him was a seedbed for pleasure and misery. She yearned to know more about him, to engage in a conversation that went beyond his preference for a double-shot espresso or the occasional cappuccino. Yet, she hesitated, afraid that revealing her admiration might shatter the delicate allure of their unspoken connection.

In those stolen moments when their gazes met, Hilary felt a relentless magnetism, something like an invisible wire that binded her to him. She imagined what it would be like to run her fingers through his luxurious dreadlocks, to lose herself in his eyes and to share conversations that far surpassed the boundaries of Wi-Fi signals and coffee cups.

However, his admission that he'll never return to the Lucky Bean and her forgetting it was his laptop that got destroyed seem like signs. Sure, she could say that it slipped her mind due to the trauma, but what of her connection to the place? She does still work there, after all. He might be triggered by that or from just merely seeing her, no matter if he isn't showing the signs currently. It's best to leave well-enough alone.

*💻*

Hilary had gotten lost in her admiration for the former patron and zoned out, bringing a halt to her story. All she could hear was his voice echoing in her head, so Dr. Thrussell's repeated finger-snaps were broken against the palisade of her fantasizing. Eventually, she was pulled out of her trance when she accidentally placed her hand in the water she spilled earlier.

"Oh shit!"

"Ah, I see you're finally back with us. Are you ready to continue your story?"

"Um, uh, yeah. Where was I?"

"The old broad had just went Rutger Hauer on my fuckin' laptop," said the young man. It would seem that recollection had made him irritated.

"Calm down, Bryson. Let's let her finish," says Dr. Thrussell. He types a few things into his tablet once more then gestures toward Hilary. "Whenever you're ready to wrap this up, you have the floor."

"Um, okay…" Hilary hesitates, unsure of what to take out and what to leave in. She eventually decides to go with something that amused her. "Alright, this next part is even crazier. See, the shotgun's recoil was too much and sent that old bat stumbling backwards. This made her dentures fly right out of her mouth and into some lady's frappuccino."

Roars of laughter filled the room. Even Bryson cracked a small smile, which Dr. Thrussell acknowledged with a wink. "That must have been quite a sight."

Hilary snickered, the memory offering a reprieve from the fear that still haunted her. "Yeah, it was like something out of a dark comedy. I mean, there she was, this little old lady, dentures out and about, shotgun in one hand, trying to regain her balance with the other."

Another patient, a middle-aged gentleman with a thick German accent, leaned forward. "What did she do then?"

Hilary chuckled. "Well, she panicked once she realized how futile her attempt had been. She abruptly dropped the shotgun and attempted to shuffle towards the exit as fast as her tiny legs could carry her, but she was apprehended by a customer. I immediately called 911, and she was arrested no less than thirty minutes afterwards."

Dr. Thrussell nodded in encouragement. "You handled the situation very well, Hilary, despite how traumatic it was. Do you feel any better having gotten that off your chest?"

Hilary's eyes welled with tears as she nodded. "Yeah, I do. Still, I can't help but think about what might've happened had she accurately fired that shotgun. Like I said — I'm not ready to die."

The group offered words of consolation and support, and all though she felt she had done the opposite, they insisted Hilary had acted courageously under immense pressure. The others soon shared their own stories of resilience, creating a sense of camaraderie among the strangers.

As the therapy session continued, Hilary started to feel a little less burdened. Sharing that dreadful encounter was the beginning of her healing, and the compassion from her fellow attendees helped to mitigate the anxiety. She realized that, in this room, she was not alone in her journey.

👩‍🦳💥💻