Over A Cup Of Coffee


The reflection of the clean full-pane glass window mirrored us... Exactly like how we appear, an opposing manner...

There we were once again in that little cafeteria. Maybe people like it there because it is so small there was barely any space spared for formality. Everything looks so intimate, so family-like... the people, the furniture and even the air, felt so close, so familial. Under all the layers of complicated scents, what is it?

Maybe... That's what it is.

Over this coffee table is a person. A person whose existence I knew of and took noticed of for a sum of a few hundred days and some millions of hours... We fitted perfectly in this melodrama the cafe had set. The scent of freshly grounded coffee, cinnamon, and freshly baked croissants. Ah... Croissants, about to be filled with tuna freshened with sliced tomatoes, cucumbers and lettuce had it, my favourite savoury.

It pulled off. We did too.

The creaming and icing came in aptly as if planned, a soft classic was playing in the background filling the gaps in the air...

We, as usual had our little introductory talks just like the previous days. Nothing too deep nor shallow working at the right amount of mathematics. To be frank, I am not ready to commit these conversation anywhere more than this. This same coffee table would be my best alibi, serving like a recording device, if only...

Whats keeping my presence from coming back tomorrow is the refreshing aroma that vapours itself from my cup. It is similiar to some kind of ritual, or rather, routine... Like how the miners used to clock in and clock out...

As the Earth revolves, the fashion statement evolves, the aroma of coffee changes.