Cinnamon and Coffee

“Hey, are you alright?” a voice asks me, waking me from my sleep. She smells like cinnamon and coffee.

But I wasn’t just asleep. I was on the way to dying. For a second time, I suppose. I mean, I was already dead. But that’s the strange thing about being a vampire– you very well may end up dying twice. I hear the rustle of a plastic grocery bag and I open my eyes to blinding sunlight.

“Oh god!” I wail, slapping my palm over my suffering eyes. “How is it morning already?” I can feel the sun sapping my energy. Everything hurts. I am always hidden away when dawn breaks and this was a massive oversight on my part. What even happened last night? I blindly feel around and notice I am lying on a park bench. I lurk in Waverly Park at night, halfway between the pub and the university dorms. Drunk students always take the shortcut through the park on their way home–

Then I remember. A lone young man was staggering back and made an easy target. Now, mind you, I don’t like to drink blood from people who will remember. Can you imagine going home, traumatized from that experience, calling up a shrink, and telling them you met a real life vampire? They’ll write you a script for anti-psychotics or stick you in the looney bin in the blink of an eye. And I don’t like putting mortals through that. Things were so much easier a century ago before mental healthcare started pathologizing the supernatural and calling us hallucinations and delusions. But I digress.

The young man was so drunk on tequila that I could taste it in his blood. I can’t eat or drink real food or alcohol anymore, so tasting what others consume via their blood is the only way I get to enjoy such delights. I’m more of a whiskey man, myself. I must have gotten drunk on his tequila shot blood and passed out. At least the kid was probably too drunk to remember our brief encounter. That’s always what I hope, at least. I’m not out to ruin these people’s lives. I’m just an honest vampire trying to survive. I do my best to be ethical.

The woman’s voice that woke me is now shaking my shoulder. “I have a bottle of water for you.”

“Shade,” I stammer. “Get me out of the sun.”

“Easy does it,” she says, helping me to sit up. Then she guides me off the bench and leads me somewhere else to sit down.

The moment I am in the shade, the screaming pain in my body mellows. But I am still gravely depleted and unwell. I slump down on the shady bench and am able to open my eyes. A delightful young lady, no older than myself when I died and became a vampire, kneels in front of me and offers a plastic water bottle. Her fingernails are painted blue.

“I am handing out water, hats, and socks to the homeless folks living in the park,” she explains, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Do you need anything?”

“No, but that’s awfully kind of you,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m sure Greggy and Kat appreciate it.” Of course I befriended my two neighbors in the park. I never drink from Greggy and Kat. They’re already so wracked with legitimate mental health problems that I am not about to make it worse. The woman tries to press the water bottle into my hands despite my refusal.

My mouth is dry, my lips cracked. Surely she can tell. I can usually sustain myself the following day on blood consumed at night. But my unplanned nap in the sun really did a number on me. I am thirsty, and not for water. I need real sustenance. But I accept the water bottle from her, uncap it, and take a swig. I swirl it in my mouth then spit it out. I can’t actually drink it, but I don’t want to seem rude. Hey, I’m doing my best here!

“The church on Main Street has a soup kitchen on Wednesdays,” she says. Perhaps she can sense my hunger. “Are you sure I can’t give you some socks?” she asks, reaching into the plastic grocery bag looped around her arm.

“Oh, I’m not homeless,” I say with a chuckle. “Just a dumbass passed out on a park bench.”

“Oh!” she says, surprised. “My apologies.” I must look absolutely haggard.

She brushes her long braid over her shoulder and I can see the faint hum of her pulse just above the collar of her woolen peacoat. I try not to stare. Come on, I tell myself. She’s out here on a Saturday morning helping people. Don’t ruin her day. A runner jogs by, but otherwise, the park is surprisingly empty. I could drink from her and no one would see. But the reality that there is no one else around drives a metaphorical stake through my heart. I am weak from sun exposure. Too depleted to hunt or do anything except find the easiest prey. I won’t make it to nightfall without eating something.

I could catch her wrist and sink my fangs into it before she could react. I could grab her by the braid and take right from her jugular. I swallow against the hunger rising in my throat. She smells like cinnamon sugar scones and coffee with maple syrup.

“Hey,” she says, “you remind me of someone I used to know from high school.”

“Oh yeah?” I say as she sits on the bench next to me. Why is she being so kind? Why isn’t she running away?

“This old boyfriend,” she says with a laugh. “He kinda looked like you. He had teeth like yours.” She peels back her upper lip with her fingers to reveal her canines.

“Mhmm?” I reply, trying not to open my mouth, terrified that she saw my fangs. I look away from her, staring down at the water bottle in my hands. My pale skin is cracked and blistered. I feel as awful as I look.

She leans in close to me, practically whispering in my ear. “I know you’re not okay,” she says. Her breath is warm and sweet. “I can help.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mumble, inching away from her. I feel exposed, like she somehow knows what I am. Is she going to tell the authorities? Will I be forced to flee from this prime hunting location? And my god, why is she tempting me like this?

“Listen,” she says, drawing away from me again, but keeping her voice low. “You’re clearly trying to not cause any lasting harm. Not all vampires are like that.”

She said the V-word. It rolled off her tongue so casually, like it holds no fear for her. Like it is an ordinary, everyday thing. I swallow hard, my mouth so very dry.

She continues, “There are no bodies being found. No one is going missing. It’s a small town. You’re clearly not a killer.”

She is right. I never kill. Heck, I can’t even bring myself to ruin my victims’ sense of psychological stability. I take their blood but attempt to leave them as unscathed, physically and mentally, as possible. How on earth does she know what I am? Is it that obvious?

I glance around the park again and there is no one but us. Greggy and Kat live on the other side of the pond. I finally turn to her, noticing the constellation of freckles across her nose and cheeks. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“Jules,” she says, offering her hand for me to shake.

I take it and her skin is so soft beneath my sun-scorched flesh. I can feel her heartbeat. “Andrew,” I reply, brushing my dark hair out of my eyes with my other hand. “Andy,” I amend.

“I want to help you, Andy” she whispers, her warm palm still clutched in mine. “I am not afraid.” She speaks as if she’s done this before. And perhaps she has. I wonder about that old boyfriend of hers. Was that just a story she told me, or does she really have a familiarity with my type?

I release her hand and take a deep breath. Because the truth is that I will die without drinking some blood. She settles herself a bit, getting comfortable on the bench next to me, like she knows I have made up my mind. “Don’t move,” I whisper. “I will be quick.” She flashes me a smile as I slide one of my hands around the back of her neck, slipping it under her braid. The other I use to tilt her jaw up, exposing her jugular. As I lean in, her aroma intensifies and my hunger deepens. My mouth waters as my dry lips touch her delicate skin.

She flinches and whimpers softly as my fangs sink into her. I know this part is painful and yet there is nothing I can do. Her warm blood gushes into my mouth and it tastes delicious. She is a bakery and coffee shop rolled into one. Gooey cinnamon rolls thick with cream cheese frosting. Rich hot chocolate with fluffy marshmallows. Brown sugar and cardamom. I feel her body start to go limp as I consume her blood. It is my venom. It ensures the vampire’s victim cannot flee once feeding begins. But she is not frightened. I weave my fingers into her hair, supporting the back of her head as I drink. My hand at her jaw cups her cheek. She exhales dreamily.

I hold all of her–her blood, her heartbeat, her breath–in my hands as I draw life from her. She is entirely at my mercy. And she did so willingly. It is deeply intimate to sustain one’s self on the lifeblood of others. But it’s a whole different kind of intimacy when someone offers to sustain you and you are not required to take it by force. It makes the blood taste so much sweeter.

When I am done feasting, I pull away from her slowly, releasing her from my grasp. I use the cuff of my shirt sleeve to dab at the two spots on her neck from where my fangs were. They’ll clot shortly, but I still don’t want to get blood on her nice jacket.

“Sit here for a moment,” I instruct in a soft voice. “The wooziness will wear off soon.”

She leans against me and gives a light laugh. “I know.” She touches her fingers to where I bit her, a warm flush in her cheeks.

“Thank you,” I say. My skin has already started to repair itself. I am no longer dying. My hunger is sated. I will be able to make it back to my hideout until nighttime returns. I want to say more to her, but I can’t conjure the words. She was too generous. I want to ask her when I can see her again, not to feed, but to get to know her better.

“I work at Honeybee Books on Third,” she says, giving me a playful nudge. “You should come by sometime. We have evening hours. You remind me of the protagonist in one of my favorite books.”

“I thought I reminded you of an old boyfriend from high school,” I tease.

“Oh no,” she says with a laugh. “I meant my new boyfriend. The one from the park.” I blush madly, caught off-guard by her boldness. “I’m kidding!” she says, poking my side. “But really, next time buy a girl dinner first, okay?”

“You were the one that offered!” I stammer.

She kisses my cheek then stands up, fully restored. “Honeybee Books,” she repeats, not wanting me to forget it. “Bye, Andy.”

“Bye, Jules,” I whisper as she fearlessly walks out into the daylight, taking her scents of cinnamon and coffee with her.