It was a beautiful Saturday morning. Arran arrived at a café he’d been frequenting called Spinelli’s and saw a burly man through the window arranging some things under the pastry glass. This was the owner – which was a rare wonder to see at all, let alone one in the act of working.


    But this was in fact what Arran found interesting about the little café: It was an owner operated business.*


    Arran also liked the owner himself, Mr. Dirby. He was a portly fellow with old eyes and a thick peppered mustache. When Arran last came, Mr. Dirby told him how he had inherited this small café nearly ten years ago when his father passed away, and that it’s been in his family for five generations. He also told him that a pride for traditional measures had become his renown: for it’s the fact that he maintains an owner-customer relationship model that gives his café the charm it has. “Name any other café or restaurant in Brighton that does that!” he urges anyone to consider. And Arran concedes, there is none. It was the first he had ever seen of its kind.


    As Arran opened the door, a waft of air broke through and brushed against his face. Immediately, he took in a smell that was centrally coffee, but held out with urban traces – a scent of musky floor board and old tobacco and iron – all of which collaborated and presented an idea of menial labor. Oddly enough, it made him sentimental of his industrial roots (the one’s that he’d read about of course).


    “Good morning Mr. Dirby,” Arran said.


    “Oh, good morning Arran,” Mr. Dirby sputtered, a little surprised at his punctual arrival. Even though he opens at 07:00 he doesn’t think to expect customers until sometime later. So after seeing Arran, he began to make a preparatory rush with the under-case display.


    “Be a good lad and take a seat over there,” Mr. Dirby points a fat finger, “and feel free to grab a little snack from that basket as well.”


    Arran looked back at the direction he pointed.


    “Basket?”


    “Oh, it’s around the corner over there.”


    Arran looked Mr. Dirby up and down and at the croissants in hand. He knew he had caught the owner off guard by having seen a part of what’s supposed to be done before anyone walks in. So, this was his way of sparing Arran the indecency of his set-up and apologizing for it at the same time. Arran grabbed a caramel delight and sat down.


    After enjoying the small treat, Arran was ready to get on with the day but was hesitant to return to the front.


    “Is it ready, Mr. Dirby?” Arran called out.


    When no response was given, Arran made his way back to where the large man was working furiously. And when Mr. Dirby saw him approach, he quickly positioned his back to him and shut the case, as if he wasn’t allowed to see it.


    “I’d like to make an order, please,” Arran said.


    “Hmm,” Mr. Dirby responded while looking over his shoulder, as if he just realized that someone was there; but then let out, “Ah, of course-of course.” And after he stepped away, Arran eyes fell on the translucent shield exposing just as much as before, an obvious amount of untidiness.


    Having moved behind the counter, Mr. Dirby saw Arran eyeing his flaw and made an abruption toward the chalk board.


    “Have you tried any of our seasonal drinks yet?” Arran followed his motion with the same eagerness to be polite.


    “Yes, I actually had the Chocolate Daint yesterday. Very good. But today I think I’ll have a regular latte with French toast, medium for the latte please.”The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    “Absolutely,” the burly man said while rapidly grabbing a cup and queuing the shots, “and don’t worry about the pay. It’s no way to start the first day of Michaelmas with expenditure, am I right?” he said this in an ol’-buddy-ol’-pal kind of way.


    Well in that case, I’ll take a chocolate croissant too – that’s what Arran wanted to say, just as a joke, but he didn’t. That would’ve brought attention to the undone case of delights, which he could tell was the real reason for his extended generosity.


    “Thanks Mr. Dirby, much appreciated,” Arran said. And he let him think today was the beginning of Michaelmas.


    It was only after he walked out of the café that he had an afterthought of guilt: Should I feel bad about taking advantage of Innocents?


    ***


    In the late afternoon Arran had finished taking two rounds through the Metropole of Erudition to become familiar with the grounds. As the name implies, it was a large enough to be a city but small enough to be a civilization. In fact, it was the only place in the UK in which to get a higher education. The building itself stretched long and wide. At the center was the only point of entrance that led into a junction. It divided the building into two divisions: The Aesthete Institute and the Lumen Institute.


    And as not yet an Aesthete, Arran only went through the Lumen Institute.


    Afterwards, he decided to stroll through Queen’s Park. He was wearing his new uniform to get used to formal wear again. In the past he always found something to hate and something to love about uniforms. Today he found something to hate: On top of it being wicked hot outside, he felt his tie wringing tighter and tighter around his neck. And he didn’t know if it was a trick of the heat or just something else, but he thought he should know for sure come October when things cool dow-


    Just then, as he was getting closer to the heart of the Hove, he felt someone fall against his back, knocking him straight to his knees.


    “Oh, I’m so sorry!” came a voice from behind, “Are you okay?”


    When Arran got to his feet and turned around he saw a raggedy, golden-brown haired girl that was probably two years his senior. An Innocent.


    He bit his tongue to discharge the sour comment rising up. “I’m okay,” he said, slapping out the dust from his pants.


    “Good catch, Millicent!” a more masculine voice called out further behind. And Arran turned to see a lanky boy jogging up to them. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to lead her into running into you like that. I accidently put too much behind it.”


    Arran was slightly confused, but then he looked down at the girl’s hand and saw a yellow Frisbee.


    The raggedy girl saw him looking at it and lifted it in his direction. “Do you want to play?”


    “Play?” Arran repeated slowly. He looked at the Frisbee unusually long before giving an answer: “No thank you.”


    When he started to walk away, he heard the boy say quieter, “Did you really think he was going to play with us? Not only is he an Aesthete, but he’s not even dressed right.”


    Arran was getting too far to hear a response, so he slipped into the girl’s mind.


    Not really. (This was the verbal response).


    I really wish he would’ve though. (This was the emotional response).


    When Arran got back to his flat, he looked around at the little home he’d made for myself. Entering the door, you were at first faced with the common area (he had one soon-to-be flatmate, whose room was situated in front of his, across this main space). And he thought this nice enough, a standard pre-furnished room.


    His room however…He was lucky enough to get a corner flat. And this meant that two out of the four walls were solid window space. He set his work table to the corner of these two windows to take advantage of the light. That was the key feature he thought.


    In the bathroom, he started to unbutton his shirt as he looked closely into the mirror. His olive-white skin was tanner than usual (a contribution of the summer weather), which almost matched the speckled, golden ring around his pupils. But this could only be seen with close inspection. Had he have taken a step back, the gold would’ve surely been swallowed by the deep blues of his eyes.


    When he took his shirt off, he saw some smudges on his sleeves where Millicent helped in picking him up – and it made him remember the recent error given to his identity.


    But to be fair, he was looking particularly aesthetic then. The careful attention given to his sleek black hair, combed back with holding product, was something only Aesthetes did. So that’s in the lanky boy’s defense: You’d might even say he wasn’t stupid for calling him an Aesthete (and Arran would be lying if he didn’t say that he took pride in his mistaking).


    But the girl…Arran thought back to their interaction which concluded in her name: Millicent.


    Do you want to play? – he repeated the question to himself while staring at the mirror, trying to understand what it was about it that made him feel so strangely.