Love and a little sugar
The light froth on her flat-white matches the tortilla shade of his rugged leather jacket he would wear often. The one she would tell him to donate or throw away. He would often take a first large sip, froth of which would without fail smother his mustache-space (only that there wasn’t any… mustache). She would gently run her finger off his philtrum (or the mustache-space. There is always a non-romantic name for such things).
He wasn’t here this balmy afternoon on this busy street in their favourite cafe in New York. The world passing by without a care, the flat-white just the same, her boring olive-green Gap hoodie, it was all there but yet not the same.
Attempting to distract herself, she pulls out her copy of Shantaram which she has been lugging around for weeks, no wait, now for months. She opens the bookmarked page from where she left it last. Page 11. That was also his birthdate — Feb 11. Distracted, she puts the book back in her aubergine tote knowing well that she won’t read it this time.
She looks around and sees couples hogging most tables in the cafe. Does no-one come out alone these days? Was she being judged? Was she the only one enjoying her mid-day break alone? Or at least pretending to enjoy it.
She dials his number, and wait for it to ring. Drops the call just before it rings. Repeats and then cuts it again. After this childish calling and dropping, she decides to call one last time, this time ready to talk. His wife takes the call. Aaaa…Ohhh…she drops the phone.
Somethings are best not done and left unsaid. Waiting for a boat at the airport — she used that phrase this morning with her best friend at her waiting for that call back from her company after being fired. Her wait for him felt the same way.
She orders a lemon meringue croissant — one that she doesn’t even like but knowing well it was his favourite.
Until next post.