The Coffee Stain

Coffee was our culture. Our day would have never been complete without it. So many years of my life are tied to that cafe and those lattes.

I would sit back in my chair and watch the steam rise from my cup. You walked in and ordered, then you took the seat across from me. The conversation was so easy, it was as if we would be drinking coffee the rest of our lives.

I got up and grabbed the chess board from the corner bookshelf. As I sat down you smiled at me and told me that you wanted to be white. Your smile made me think that you had something hidden up your sleeve. But i was secretly relived by this — I was always black. We were ten minutes into the game and I had your bishop and knight, you had my rook and a couple pawns. As the time passed we tried to distract each other away from the game by discussing The Fountainhead or Kurt Vonnegut. In the end I was the more distracted and lost. You knew that it didn’t bother me, as you had been the more distracted in the past.

It was always nice outside, even when it was snowing we wanted to be out there. We walked to the counter to order another latte each and then headed to no place specific.

You were studying architecture during those years, and you showed me the small details of each building as if to show me the truth and ugliness that everyone wanted to hide. As I took a sip of my coffee I thought to myself, “You see my details, my truth, my ugliness. What more could I ask for?” Of course I never needed to tell you this, you knew. I also knew about yours. It was a shared secret that we only discussed at the cafe or on the walks. We never told the others, mostly because we didn’t know how. I was content with this and took another sip.

We walked down to the construction site and pressed ourselves up against the fence. It was a giant hole at that time, and it felt like we would fall in if the fence were to suddenly disappear. It was so raw and I wanted to stay there in my spot until the final brick was laid, but we have to move on.

We started walking back to the house on South Temple, and I was searching for a garbage can. As we walked by the bus stop we tossed our cups, as if the contents had meant nothing to us.

This became the routine. The days were boring and sad without that coffee. As the years went by, that eventually brought us to the end, the coffee left a stain on my memory. Now I sip my latte alone, and the steam still rises from my cup. I smile and think of who you used to be.