“Drat. Coffee first. Schemes later.”
Hieber, Leanna Renee. (2011). Darker Still: A Novel of Magic Most Foul. Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Numb and bewildered, Jacob wandered away from the transformational scene-of-the-crime he had just been victimized in. Awkwardly stashing the silly, metal doughnut in “his” purse, he clumsily lumbered along city sidewalks at random. Instead of a destination in mind, Jacob's brain was steadfastly focused on the mere act of movement itself. His recently feminized body, thinner in some places and thicker in others, did not comport itself with any sort of automatic grace of motion. Instead of moving fluidly when he walked, Jacob found his legs stomping, his arms dangling, and his overall carriage slumping in the artless style and demeanor of a teenage boy. And, knowing this, Jacob found himself acutely embarrassed. He was not just a grown woman at the moment: he was an adult female with all the body language of an insecure, adolescent male.
“I look like an idiot,” he grumbled to himself.
And yet, there was nothing to be done. The toroid had refused his pleas to reverse the transformation, and the only human being aware of his plight (Emily) had abandoned him for the moment. He didn't relish the thought of roaming about town like this all night, waiting for Emily to text him that her date was over and she now had time to help him sort things out. For once, Jacob would have to be proactive and do something for himself. But what?
He looked up and found he had accidentally roamed right into the quirky little artist enclave of his hometown's business district. An antique store, a book shop, a couple mom-and-pop art galleries, and a coffeehouse all stood in a neat row before him. He sneaked a glance through the coffeehouse window. They all looked pretty pretentious in there; but for all Jacob knew he looked pretty pretentious himself right now.
So into the café he trepidatiously trod.
Even to a non-coffee drinker such as himself, the place smelled delicious. Uncertain what to do, he quietly ordered an espresso and soon received a demitasse of hot, mahogany liquid. Carrying it gingerly to an empty table, Jacob quietly took his place among all the other habitués of the coffehouse – a smattering of silent cyberflâneurs and seigneur-terraces brooding listlessly over their hand-warmed phones and cold, half-drunk cups of coffee. Though, reflected Jacob soberly, perhaps the term dame-terrace might be a bit more apropos to describe himself at the present moment.
“What an odd thing to think,” he mumbled to himself. Was there still something magical at work here, impacting his mind now as well as his body? Resisting the urge to pull forth his own phone and join the idle netizens of the café, Jacob instead pulled from his purse the corroded, copper doughnut that he blamed for his present gender changed and age progressed situation.
“Coffee and doughnuts,” he grumbled, looking down at the toroid and his cup of espresso. “You should have just changed me into a cop.”
And then the toroid spoke.
Well … not exactly “spoke.”
Rather, it somehow manifested a voice inside Jacob's head – a voice with no external resonance, no echo from sound waves bouncing off the walls or inadvertently interacting with the cacophony of ordinary, everyday sound vibrations present even in an otherwise “quiet” room like this. It was a voice that somehow “beamed” itself directly into Jacob's mind in a way that left no doubt as to who was speaking and whom the message was addressed to. Unsurprisingly, it was also an exceedingly quirky, unusual voice. It had an almost puberphonic timbre and tone – squeaky, high-pitched, and flirting with falsetto, like an adult woman performing the voice of a child for a cartoon show.
It's a cliché, said the voice.
“What?” Jacob found himself blurting out.
The Toroid spoke:
Cops, coffee, and doughnuts. It's a stereotype. The comestible dyad of caffeine and glucose is far too popular a pairing to be restricted solely to those pursuing a vocation in law enforcement.
“What?” Jacob dumbly repeated.
The Toroid spoke:
Think your thoughts and I'll hear them. No need to babble aloud. Now, where were we? Ah, coffee was our topic, n'est-ce pas? And it's a subject matter where your callow inexperience is showing, dear boy. You see, you just don't seem to know beans about coffee. Qahwah. A dark wine from a berry of a different color. “Berry?” you say? But they're beans. No, no, no. Coffea is a bacciferous plant producing an amaroidal fruit. What you call beans are seeds: the pits inside the fruit. They're cherries or berries, but they were never beans, pulses, or legume fruits. What they are is a powerful little package of psychoactive potential: biochemistry at its finest! Dry and bitter on its sad li'l lonely ownsome. But like so many things, better when wet and warm. No surprise humans would get so hooked by something best served hot, wet, and steamy, eh? Lasciviousness is imprinted on your genes, o humans! Rule 34: no exceptions. It's in your nature. Now breathe in that heavenly aroma, that empyrean perfume, that celestial bouquet. Mmm. The scent alone is intoxicating. 'Tis because the molecules that make up an odor require a good solvent to swim about in, and nothing dissolves like good old-fashioned H2O! Properly boiled up in a good brew, the hot water vapor carries a few hitchhiking chemicals into the air. They whirl and swirl around and around and around the room. Mmm, smell that! It's neither dry nor bitter, now. It's transformed into ambrosia. Not a fruit salad or soft rock band, but ἀμβροσία – a beverage fit for the gods. Ganymede, “loveliest born of the race of mortals,” was the original barista pouring Zeus a lusty libation of espresso and catching his amorous eye in the process. But, as always, there was trouble in paradise and βοῶπις Hera, ever jealous, invented the myth of Kaldi the goatherd as well as the later legend of Omar the disciple. But the miracle drug was always known in Olympus and throughout the multiversal cosmos beyond. And that, dear boy, is coffee! You'll like it, and like what the odorless, bitter-tasting, white powder dissolved within can do. Ah, yes. I refer to our friend the exalted caffeine molecule: C8H10N4O2 … hallowed be thy name. 'Tis a brilliant little chemical, and so devilishly subtle in its impact upon the central nervous system of Homo sapiens. You see, caffeine is not only water-soluble, but lipid-soluble as well. So it easily crosses your blood-brain barrier and gets to work on altering the very substance of your mind. But don't worry: you'll like this transformation of the mind. You see, there's a little chemical called adenosine: C10H13N5O4. And it just so happens our friend caffeine is molecularly similar to adenosine. It attaches to the adenosine receptors in your neurons, but doesn't activate them the way real adenosine would. Now just what would genuine adenosine do, you ask? Why, it would activate your somnolence response – you'd get sleepy. And so: the presence of caffeine in your nervous system blocks adenosine molecules from binding to your neurons and activating your body's drowsiness response. Yum! Caffeine keeps you awake and alert! Caffeine is to biochemistry what the exclamation mark is to typography! And nothing ever smelled so good while doing all that as just coffee, sweet coffee. “All bitter things conduce to sweet, As this example shows!” Is it no wonder human beings so religiously and devoutly celebrate the holy substance? Know you of the Javacrucians? Like the Teasophical Society, the Cult of Chocolatl, the Rastacolians, and the “fanatic Nodozers,” they worship Caffeina, the Goddess of Awareness. Though theirs is not a tale for me to tell. Their saga is best told by Phaedra and Isaac, to whom that story belongs. I'm here for another purpose. You and I – we together are gathered here today in this holy temple of Tarrazú to investigate your own story, dear boy. You knew you had a story, didn't you? If you don't play along though, you could easily get shoved to the sidelines and become a mere sidekick. Or worse yet, just a prop: a cardboard cut-out wearing a nametag but having no thoughts, feelings, or motivations. You presence would be needed just so the real characters would have someone/something to bounce lines off. Don't let yourself get narratively flattened. It's your choice. So what will you do, boy – what will you do?
Shocked and unnerved by yet another once-in-a-lifetime experience within the span of a single day, Jacob dropped the tarnished, metal ring back into the dark interior of his Louis Vuitton handbag. Refreshingly, the run-on sentence chattering of the Toroid's squeaky, high-pitched voice immediately ceased, and Jacob heaved a relaxed sigh of relief.
It was short lived.
“Pardon me?” said a smooth, baritone voice from behind Jacob's shoulder.
Jacob practically leaped from his chair and found himself, heart-in-throat, looking up into the twinkling, dark brown eyes of a ruggedly handsome, broad-shouldered man with chiseled features and a playful, winning grin.
“I'm sorry,” the man said smoothly. “I didn't mean to startle you, miss. But you look awfully familiar. I hope you won't think I'm too forward for asking – but we've met before, haven't we?”
Numbly, Jacob shook his head from side to side in a rapid, frenzied motion.
“Maybe we haven't been properly introduced,” the man continued. “I'm Hank. And I hope I'm not mistaking you for someone else? I know I've seen you around before though. You have lovely, sparkling eyes. I'm sure I remember you.”
“N-N-No,” Jacob found himself stammering, even as he reflexively blushed from the compliment. “I'm new in town. I've never been here before. I'm sure I don't know you.”
“Well, then,” the man said, subtly shifting his smile to one of momentarily accepted defeat. “I am sorry for bothering you, miss. Can I at least know your name? Then I'll let you be.”
Jacob almost found himself blurting out his real name. Something about this man, Hank was it? … Jacob wanted to trust him, bask in his warm smile, laugh at his jokes, sink into his strong arms, and get to know him.
“I'm Jamie,” replied Jacob, lowering his eyes to avoid the man's piercing, hypnotic gaze.
“That's a lovely name,” answered Hank. “Welcome to town, Jamie. I hope to see you around again. Now, as promised, I'll leave you to enjoy your coffee in peace and quiet.”
And true to his word, Hank retreated to a table at the opposite end of the café.
“What is happening to me?” Jacob thought silently, for once managing to keep his thoughts to himself. “I am not a woman named Jamie. I am not attracted to that man. I am not the proud owner of a talking, metal doughnut. And I am not losing my marbles here and now.”
Realizing he'd been standing up long enough for it to begin looking awkward and odd, Jacob hurriedly made a beeline for the restrooms, almost barging into the men's room before making a last second adjustment to his autopilot and forcing himself to steer into the ladies' room instead.
It was terra incognita.
Superficially, it was simply a men's room sans urinals. But that was were the similarities ended. It somehow smelled fresher, looked cleaner, and felt more luxuriously plush than any public lavatory Jacob had ever been in before. Of course, he'd never seen the interior of the men's room here at the café; perhaps it was equally impressive … though he rather doubted it.
Stepping over to the sinks, Jacob finally got a good, long look at his own reflection. It was everything he had both feared and hoped for: he was an attractive, youthful-looking, adult woman stylishly dressed with immaculately applied makeup. The image in the mirror was eerily familiar though. This strange woman looked like Jacob himself, if he'd been an older, successful, good-looking, woman instead of a shy, chubby, teenage boy. The effect of it all was overwhelming, and Jacob could do little more than gaze in open-mouthed wonder at the alien reflection with the intimately recognizable face.
As he stood there, transfixed by his female doppelgänger, one of the restroom stalls opened and a short, brunette sauntered out. Smiling, she began washing her hands at the faucet next to Jacob.
Barely five feet tall, she moved with confidence and maturity the taller “Jamie” clearly lacked. The strange woman had dark, shoulder length hair, icy blue eyes, and a generous helping of thick curves on her chest, hips, and thighs. She was dressed in a shimmery, silky, sapphire colored off-shoulder blouse, a pair of breezy black wide-leg slacks, and glossy bright blue wedge-heeled sandals.
“Hi. I'm Liz,” she said, a hint of impish mischief chirping cheerfully forth from those three short, simple syllables.
“I'm Jamie,” replied Jacob, wondering why everyone at this cursed coffee shop insisted on talking to him.
“Is everything okay?” asked Liz. “If you don't mind my saying so, you look nervous and jumpy – like you're not comfortable in your own skin. Has someone been bothering you?”
“No. I mean yes. But … not anything serious,” Jacob sputtered. “I'm just … flustered. I'm new in town, uh … and I just … I just met a dude in there … I think his name was Hank.”
“Oh. Hank?” grinned Liz. “I know him. And I know his type, too. He's harmless enough. A mostly good sort. Not really my cup of tea though.”
She smiled mysteriously and flashed Jacob a knowing wink.
“Uh … yeah … I agree,” mumbled Jacob, suddenly feeling like a drowning man gasping desperately for air. For the first time in his life, he felt that he intimately understood the true meaning of the phrase: “in over your head.”
“Don't be so nervous,” Liz said, with a devilish grin. “I don't bite – unless that's what you're into!”
Both “women” laughed: Liz expectantly and Jacob nervously.
For the second time in a quarter-hour, Jacob felt his heart fluttering and his cheeks blushing. What the hell was going on here? He wasn't a woman named Jamie, he wasn't attracted to that guy Hank, and he certainly wasn't flirting with a lesbian in the women's room of a coffee shop. He was a teenage boy, in love with Emily: the girl next door. And right now, he just desperately wanted to go back home and change back into plain, old, pathetic Jacob again. What kind of insane “lesson” was that stupid, magic doughnut trying to teach him, anyhow? This was his story, the Toroid had said. And he had to choose to do something with it. Well, do what? It seemed the universe was conspiring to force choices upon him.
A tense silence ensued as Liz finished drying her hands, gazed quietly at Jacob for a moment, and then turned to leave the room, lightly brushing his cheek with her fingertips as she left.
Jacob blinked his eyes a few times and again ran the Toroid's words through his head. Was this really his story – or was this now Jamie's story?
What do you do now?
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