Love Like Coffee

artwork by author

by Kristina Hagman

The old man held the mug in both of his old wrinkled hands. Steam swirled up and brushed his face before dissipating into the air. He breathed in deeply but shakily — his lungs were not as they used to be.

The bittersweet smell of coffee rose toward his nose, his brain knowing the scent before it reached his body. Leaning forward, he picked up the small pitcher of cream in the middle of the table. Pouring it in slowly, he watched it swirl with the dark brown of the coffee. He added a packet of cane sugar and stirred gently.

Taking a sip of the hot drink, he smiled. It was good coffee, for sure. But it was not as good as that of his wife. His thoughts brought him to another time.

He walked down the frigid streets of New York, his hands tucked tightly into a gray wool coat. The cold air nipped his skin, teasing the warmth out of his breath. Walking just a bit faster, he turned a corner and saw the coffee shop.

It was small but inviting, with a cheery sign hanging in the window. It was empty; it was almost closing time. A lone barista was wiping down tables, her sleeves pushed up past her elbows.

Not wanting to disrupt the routine, but now yearning for coffee, the young man pushed open the door. A bell jingled as he entered. The barista looked up, a pleasant expression on her face.

“It’s almost closing time,” she announced simply.

He nodded, “I know. But coffee sounded just perfect right now. If it’s an inconvenience, I could…” He gestured toward the door.

“It’s alright. You’re here already. And it wouldn’t be kind to have you wander in search of the second-best coffee in New York!” She smiled up at him and moved to pour hot water into a filter.

The room was silent for a while as the coffee machine whirred. It beeped after a minute or two, and the girl prepared a cup. She let the foam settle on top and gave it a quick stir with a spoon. Carrying it over to the table where the boy sat, she handed it to him.

“No charge,” she said.

He looked into the cup. A heart of foam floated atop the dark liquid. “Why the heart?”

“Everyone can use a little more love. Plus, it’s Valentine’s Day. You looked lonely.”

The young man came to that coffee shop every day for the next week, until he worked up the courage to ask the friendly barista out on a date. The old man sipped at his coffee, a smile crinkling his wrinkled face as he remembered his first date.

It was another cold February day, and they were going ice-skating. Shyly, the boy took her hand, emboldened by the pink that flooded her cheeks.

They skated in circles, laughing and sliding along. The girl’s hair danced behind her, the strands escaping the grip of her hat. The tips of her nose and ears were red from the cold, but she was happy.

When they were finished with skating, the young man tugged her toward a hot chocolate stand, purchasing them both a cup of the steaming liquid.

“Coffee is better,” she teased him.

Coffee was better, the old man thought. It had been such a unique part of their relationship, one that popped up over and over again.

He remembered his proposal to her, with coffee. It had been a year after their first meeting — Valentine’s Day. He corresponded with her coworkers and they allowed him to use the coffee shop where they first met.

He decorated it with Christmas lights, taking her there long after the customers had left. One of her friends acted as their server, taking their orders. She ordered a latte.

With its arrival, she smiled. It had a foam heart on top. “Everyone can use a little more love,” she remarked.

He smiled back at her, nervously sipping his drink as he waited for her to find the ring at the bottom.

The old man looked at his cup fondly, almost to the end of his drink. He would never forget the shine of her eyes as she said yes.

           

He remembered the iced coffee they served at their wedding reception. He remembered the coffee his wife gave him to announce her pregnancy. He remembered the coffee they shared to consol each other after each miscarriage. He remembered giving each foster child, all eight of them, a coffee cup and coffee grinds as they left to go to college. He remembered the solemn eyes of his wife as she gave him a cup of coffee, telling him that she was dying. He remembered sneaking coffee into the hospital as she lay sick. He sat there for a long time, and remembered.

            He glanced around at the coffee shop. It had been many things over the years — a bookstore, a boutique, a small restaurant, and ever so often a coffee shop. This year, it was a coffee shop. He came often, and the young hosts knew his face. They listened eagerly to him as he told them how they shop would change, how the world would change, how people would change, but how memories would always stay the same.