You’re sitting at a window seat in the new coffee shop down the road. It was a good decision to come here after all; you think. It’s very quiet for a Saturday. You turn away from the window to look around the room, glad for the unexpected solitude the lack of clientele gives you.
You look back outside and see what seems like the umpteenth couple to pass by in the 30 minutes you’ve been sitting there. They walk past hand in hand. She’s smiling. It’s such a broad smile. A real expression of happiness.
Suddenly it doesn’t seem like such a good idea to be sitting at the window.
You were happy once before.
Now your days are spent marking the hours till the day is over. You haven’t smiled in ages, sometimes you wonder if your mouth still remembers how.
Your mind drifts back to the last time. You turn your head a fraction to the left, not wanting to but unable to stop yourself from looking over at the spot where your life changed.
You can almost see yourself sitting at that table, laughing, happy. Digging into the chicken pasta Alfredo that was your usual fare whenever you came there.
Back when the coffee shop was an Italian restaurant of course.
Your favorite place to eat, the both of you.
You try to tear your eyes away, but it’s too late now.
The sequence plays out, almost like a movie.
One minute you’re laughing at some joke he’s told. You’re thinking about how good the pasta tastes, better than it’s been all week.
You look up and he’s slumped on the table.
“Get up,” you say, thinking it’s some macabre joke.
You wish it had been a joke.
Everything between then and the hospital is a blur. You can’t remember how the blanket you eventually found around your shoulders got there; or even how you got to the hospital. There’s a girl next to you, wearing the restaurant’s waitress uniform. You didn’t notice her before.
You can remember the pain though. The gut-wrenching pain. The pain that comes when the doctor comes to find you in the waiting room, somber.
You remember wondering whether it’s one of the things they get taught in school. The bad news look. The look that says it’s all gone to hell.
In your mind, you’re silently screaming.
You almost don’t hear him when he says “I’m afraid we lost him”.
You tuned him out after the first “I’m sorry”.
Those words jolt you back to reality.
They ask if there’s anyone you can call to be with you.
You take out your phone in a daze. Press 1 on your speed dial and it starts to ring. Your purse vibrates. Of course, you’ve got his phone. You must have grabbed it on your way to the hospital. That’s when it hits you. He’s never going to answer when you call. He’s gone, left you behind.
A ruptured aneurysm, the doctor says. You don’t know what that is. They’re hard to catch the doctor says. But you hardly hear him. You’re trying to remember the last thing you told him. You wish you could remember, but you can’t. You can’t even remember what the joke was. You can remember how good the pasta was, but you can’t remember his words. You start to laugh, you laugh so hard your shoulders are shaking. The doctor looks at you, alarmed. He can’t get away fast enough.
The sound of the door chime brings you back to the present.
You look up to see a large group trooping in. You sigh, your solitude is over.
You resign yourself to the thought of going back to your apartment, where your mother is waiting.
You came to the coffee shop to be away from her. You’re tired of having to explain that grieving your dead fiance a year later is only natural. Your mother’s extended visit which was a blessing in the beginning, when remembering to do normal things like eat was a hassle, has now become a pain. Still, you’re grateful. You at least had her to lean on in the worst of it. You pick up your cup of coffee with a sigh, intending to gulp it down and leave before the group settles in and the chatter becomes unbearable.
You look up and lock eyes with one of them, a guy.
He’s looking at you so intently, and he breaks into a smile.
Before you know it, your lips are moving.
Your mouth remembers after all, you smile.
You take a sip of your coffee and set your cup down.