Idiosyncrasies

She knew who he was, before he even had the chance to introduce himself. The dark hair, the gooey chocolate eyes, the cocoa skin, that impeccable facial structure - it was impossible to miss him. Not that she was one of those estrogen-crazed stalker sorts; it wasn't really her thing. But she did work the earlybird shift at the Starbucks on the corner of Capper and Tottenham Court, and it was said that the city never sleeps - and it seemed that at 6AM, all those insomniac vampires crawled up out of the gutter and flocked to the closest coffee shop to fuel their engines and keep themselves running through another day of guising mortality. And while fresh pots were emptied like blood banks, the tabloids seemed to fly off the shelves just as fast. She was destined to catch a glimpse of his face at one point or another.

Despite the myriads of tidbits flying across the headlines about him - ZAYN'S NEW TATTOO: OO-WEE OR OOPSY? and MALIK SHOOTS BACK AT WANTED'S MAX GEORGE - her knowledge of him remained surprisingly small. She just knew that he was famous - a musician, if she could recall, although that could also be gathered by the microphone tattoo blotting his forearm that she oftentimes found herself staring at - and that lately, his and his colleagues' faces had been everywhere. She wasn't overly bothered by it. She'd seen the girls from the intermediate school down the street file in after dismissal, all giggles and excited whispers as they raided the magazine racks and then scurried up to the register with their precious loot. She'd watched them ghost their fingers over the faces on the page or pour over a witty remark made in an interview. They were enamored, and it always for a moment seemed strange to her how so many people could be so frantic over one group of boys. But it was a thought that quickly escaped her as the girls filed out and the next wave of customers plowed in.

But although her knowledge only extended as far as the paper headlines and fevered whispers of the school girls would allow, she somehow felt as if out of anybody out there - out of all the paparazzi and the fans and admirers - she may have known him best.

It wasn't because of the papers or the girls. It wasn't the rumors on his latest stunt or his band's most recent landmark or any of that. All of that seemed meaningless when it boiled down to who he really was - what he really was. What she knew him as.

She knew him as the 7:45 regular, Mr. Zip Up Hoodie and Sweats with the Chuck Taylors down below. He was Mr. Caramel Mocha Frappucino, "don't bother me else I'll bite your head off" glare; fingernail scraping the edge of his Marlboro box as he impatiently waited for his drink and occasionally wiped the sand from his eyes. He was tousled hair weighed down with left over mousse, sticking out in an effortless yet somehow trendy fauxhawk that suited him ten times better than the mile high quiff he sported on the glossy magazine covers. He was a 3-day old stubble that would certainly not be considered fashion savvy, god forbid the paps caught him. He was a quick, sparing glance of rebellion at 8AM, when he knew his manager would have his neck if the media caught wind of such a blunder. He was groggy and evasive, usually only sparing a smile or two on a good day, sleepy and hungover and wishing only to be transparent. He was Zayn :) in black Sharpie marker, his name scrawled across the back of his cup in her slapdash cursive handwriting.

She didn't know a thing about him but the mannerisms and foibles she picked up from his daily morning pit-stops, and yet she felt it was these tender little quirks that made him who he really was: not Zayn Malik, hometown hero gone Hollywood heartthrob, but Zayn with the gawky early morning fashion sense who smells like smoke and doesn't really want much except his coffee and to be overlooked. Zayn whose eyes stayed trained on the toes of his Converse, never once straying to the familiar faces adorning the magazine rack.

And it wasn't the fact that he could be so remarkably unobtrusive and soft spoken when half the population was chanting his name that got her, although to her that was a wonder in itself. It was merely the fact that she'd been serving him his morning coffee for 9 months now, and he still hadn't once bothered to look her in the eye.

It was moment when he murmured a small "thanks" and sent her a fleeting worn-out camera-ready smile without ever meeting her gaze that made her realize for a split second why so many people could adulate him so. He was absolutely fascinating. He was a beacon of grandeur peculiarity in a sea of unremarkable people, yet so remarkably unremarkable himself. Though she didn't cling to every exhale like others may have, he still lingered in her purview, a small curious thought in the back of her mind she saved for rainy days and wistful nights. She couldn't help but wonder.