The answer to the question of why Beverly had been sent to this itty bitty postage stamp-sized place, can barely locate it on a map' type of town, well, she didn't quite have it yet. But here she was - work beckoned, and she answered. They wanted a piece on the intricacies of small town life - because people who schlepped to work each day in their long black trench coats, carrying umbrellas, faces buried in their phones really didn't understand such things. No, they only understood the subway, the scent of piss, and ten different kinds of garbage (extra tall stacks of garbage, hot garbage, etc).
She was going to bridge the gap. Yay.
In fact, she'd already passed a Christmas market - festive stalls illuminated with blinking lights, brightly colored signs, greeting cards crafted by hand - and treats that were bad for her waistline. Freshly roasted, golden brown chestnuts in paper cones and creamy hot chocolate poured into mugs, with generous layers of whipped cream. Keep it away, Satan.
It was just all quaint, and if she wasn't going to eat her weight in chestnuts she would give in to one of her vices. Coffee, a comforting aroma - she noticed it as soon as she opened the door to the shop; it was strong, the air was thick with it. Not unpleasantly, however. Still, the place seemed fancier (white china cups and the milky foam - leaf designs, some of them, in pale brown) than your average Starbucks, which was great, because Starbucks was only for the sake of convenience and not because anyone actually liked their burnt urine roast.
"Yeah, hi - " She slid off her sunglasses, pushing back a few messy red curls that had fallen astray. "Nitro brew. Don't be a pussy about it either, I want the biggest size."
He was cute. Looked like a model for the magazine Beverly wrote for. Maybe by choosing to live in a nowhere small town, he lost a bet. Or was still residing at home with mom. Ew.