It was a cold afternoon, the early sun was rising and a chill wind tickled my nose. I strolled through the alleyway between the Bluebird Boutique and Redeye, trying to stay hidden in the shadows. My heart raced and I sweat under my thin hoodie. Walking to work was always stressful, and I was happy that it was a short trip. I cut through different alleys, the shade wrapping around me like a blanket. I soon reached a bland, one-story building with a large window to the right of a dark brown door. A sleek white sign with purple trim hung to the left of the entrance. The lavender calligraphy written across the sign read “Violet Flower Coffee.” A white circle table with a lavender cushioned chair sat under the sign, and unlit fairy lights were strung around the doorframe. As I stepped into the warm coffee shop, I turned on the lights. They flickered to life, illuminating the shop and completing the image. The marble counter shined, welcoming me back to another uneventful day. I slipped through the counters dark brown door. My fingers carefully placed overpriced pastries behind the counter window. I heard the door creak open, and I smiled.

A man in a thick red turtleneck sweater shuffled to the counter, trapped in a daze. His sandy hair was untidy and piled onto the top of his head. His grey eyes were glazed over and tired. He was a dull red, and it filled up my brain as he spoke.

“One violet coffee, please,” He said, his worn-out voice smothering my ears. I sighed.

“Are you sure, sir?” I asked incredulously. I always ask if they want the violet drinks, but I suppose I don’t care if they do. It’s their choice.

He nods and pays for his coffee and an apple cider doughnut. I later give him his warm drink, and he leaves without a word.

I used to hate making the violet coffees. They aren’t ordered often, but every time someone bought one I would cry after they left. I had to keep it together after a customer complained that I was “too emotional.” Now, I try to not care about it. But the violet drinks make me think.

I make drinks when customers order it, and rush hour passes in a purple-blue blur. I felt like I was watching it all happen, and I’m trapped in my own thoughts. All I can think about is the dull red aura moving out of sight.

I used to hate making those drinks. I hated the rich smell of them, the deep color, and the way all the buyers look when they leave. Their eyes are the same, glazed over and determined. I remember all of them. Now, I don’t care. Or at least, I try not to care. It was their choice to buy the coffee.

It was their choice to kill themselves.

My shift is over, and I step into the crisp outside and throw on my cashmere scarf. The sky was painted in reds and oranges, like a warm watercolor landscape hung in space. Cotton candy pink clouds filled in the sky, and a cold wind blew through my hair.

I sighed. No matter what I seemed to do, my thoughts returned to the grey-eyed man. I suppose it was his choice. I don’t know why he chose to end himself, and I probably never will. He might not have had a choice.

My apartment is small, and I sink down into my couch. I flip on the TV, not really watching it. It’s some kids cartoon with talking animals. The colors fill my brain and wipe out the noise. My head hurts from thinking.

When I first started making the violet drinks, I had thought that they were horrible. Like when I made them, I was responsible for their death. But now I don’t. Our lives are limited, like they are on a timer. The timer starts the minute we are born, and stops when we die. The coffee cuts the timer short.

My eyes are tired and blur. The TV becomes quiet. I feel myself nodding off, and I fall into a blissful ignorance.

Days pass. It’s been almost one and a half weeks since the dull-red voiced man came by, and I’ve stopped thinking about it.

I’m back at work and I hear the door creak open.

A woman in a large grey jacket walks up to the counter. Her sandy hair is tucked into a ponytail, and her blue eyes are bright.

“Hi.” She waves at me. I awkwardly wave back. No one ever waves at me. Her voice is a bright lemon yellow, and it overflows my mind. “I’m Phoebe! And you are?” she rested her hands on the counter and smiled. She is very friendly. “Uh. I’m Adeline,” I said. “What would you like?”

“I’ll have your full stock of violet coffee, please.”

My eyes widen. The whole stock of violet coffee? That’s almost twenty whole cups! No one has ever bought more than one drink, and that’s already plenty. But I try not to question it. She has her reasons.

But she doesn’t look like the rest of them. Her mouth is pulled into a natural smile, her skin is clean and freckled, and her eyes are alive, alive, alive.

“When will you get more of the coffee in?” Phoebe asks as she pulls 30 dollars out of a small purple wallet. “Uh…” I don’t understand Phoebe. Why would you come back for more drinks that are supposed to kill you? “I get more in next Wednesday, an hour before we close, if it helps.” Phoebe smiles, promises to be back then, and pays her $20.67 for the coffee. She also buys an apple cider doughnut. Before Phoebe steps out into the harsh winter, she turns and waves at me. I wave back.

Phoebe returns. She comes every Wednesday at exactly 7:30 PM, and always buys the full stock of coffee and one apple cider doughnut. It becomes a routine for me, and I soon notice that every Wednesday seems to be longer. I check the clock constantly, waiting for the minute Phoebe comes in. I still can’t help but wonder what she’s doing with all of that coffee.

It feels strange not having any of the poisonous coffee ready. I feel unprepared. If someone were to come in, I would have to say we didn’t have any left. It’s reassuring, I suppose, and probably for the best. But it still puts me on edge. Wednesday creeps up on me, and soon it's 7:30. An older brunette purchases her child a cake pop. 7:35. A group of tired looking teenagers comes in and each buys a black coffee. 7:47. A short woman orders a large frappuccino. 7:51.

Soon it’s 8:00. I’m confused, and my mind seems to take off into full anxiety mode. My brain is mush, and my eyes are stinging. What if Phoebe finally did it and drank the violet coffee, I thought to myself. But I knew she wouldn’t do that. Phoebe was different. She was energetic, friendly, and confident. But maybe it was an act. Sometimes the saddest people are the best at hiding it. No. Phoebe's isn't hiding anything. Her eyes were alive and full of excitement. She was not sad. Maybe, I thought, she just doesn’t care about you.

I make drinks when customers order it, and rush hour passes in a lemon-yellow blur. I’m about to start closing up the shop when I hear the door creak open. Phoebe steps into the room, escaping the cold rain. Her blue eyes are glazed over and tired. Something is wrong.

She glides to the counter and waves at me. Her eyes are glued to the floor, and as she speaks I notice that her familiar shockingly bright yellow is gone.

“The violet coffees, please,” She mumbles. Her friendly tone is missing.

“Uh, alright,” I say, worry filling my voice. I make her coffees and place an apple cider doughnut next to the pile of drinks. Phoebe pays without a word, picks up the drinks, and glides out the door with as much grace as she always brings in with her. My eyes follow her as she leaves, and I notice she forgot her doughnut. I quickly grab the bag and rush out the door, my eyes searching for her now-dull yellow. The rain plummets onto my hoodie, cold as ice and obscuring my vision. I notice her baby blue scarf floating to the small boutique next door, and I run to reach it. My boots thud against the pavement, and her yellow glow comes to view. She’s near the dumpsters behind Redeye, and with one swift motion throws all of the coffees away. They fall to the bottom of the trash and plop onto the metal base with a satisfying thunk. Phoebe turns, clearly satisfied, and I can tell she’s crying.

“Phoebes?”

She sniffs. Her thin jacket is barely doing anything, and she looks freezing.

I inch closer to her and held out her doughnut. “You forgot this.” Phoebe stares at the soaking bag. She softly laughs.

“That thing’s got to be ruined by now.”

I smile. “I guess it is. I suppose you can come back to the shop with me and we can, y’know, get you a new one. I was closing up so there’ll be no one there. We can talk if you want to.” Phoebe's eyes sparkled when you were close. They were so alive, and I loved it. She nodded, and we went to back to the Violet Flower.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Phoebe and I had talked for what seemed like hours. Apparently, her brother was the dull-red man. His name was Aiden. They found him dead the next morning, and she had known about the coffee shop. She didn’t know about the drinks though, and it had taken her a lot of research to figure out how he died. Phoebe said she didn’t blame me for his death, as it was his choice. She just wished they had some way to stop it from happening.

It took a while for her lemon yellow voice to come back.

I quit my job at the Violet Flower after Phoebe told me I should. I don’t know why I stayed there. I was the only one doing a 1:30-8:30 shift for months. I’ve been planning to open up my own coffee shop. I have almost everything figured out, and now all I need is a location. Until then, I’m (temporarily) working at a bakery. The pay is fine, and it will last me for a while until I open up my own shop.

It turns out Phoebe’s apartment is only ten minutes away from mine. Every Wednesday I go to Phoebe’s place and we watch movies. We’ve definitely gotten closer, and I know so much random crap about her it’s almost funny. She has a dog named Butterscotch. She works as a therapist and volunteers at the local animal shelter every weekend. Her apartment is always warm, and she likes her popcorn salted.

Sometimes I wonder how much longer I’ll wait until I tell her how I feel.

It’s a warm Friday morning, and the cold winter months were finally ending. Phoebe had just left for work, so I was heading down to the bakery.  I pass by the familiar alleyway I would take to get to work, and curiosity got to the best of me. I had fifteen minutes until work started, so I strolled down the path, not bothering to stay hidden in the shadows.

I approached the bland shop. The fairy lights were gone, and the table and chair were tucked away. The inside of the Violet Flower was dark, and a sign that read “For Sale” hung in the large window. I smiled to myself. I had finally found my location, and this one would be absent of poisoned coffee.