The Coffee Shop

fiCTion

The Coffee shop

by Caroline horTon

Patrons and the smell of freshly-ground coffee beans drift in and out of the local coffee shop. Well, one of the local coffee shops. In this town, there must be a relentless demand for caffeine. Downtown, where all the shops and local hangouts reside, there are three coffee shops within a block of each other. Cold brews, pour overs, and lattes aplenty. The cup often does runneth over in this town.

But this place, this coffee shop, has the best coffee. At least, that’s what the customers inside believe. Not only does the coffee taste like liquid gold compared to the motor oil of the two other shops on the block, but people cannot seem to get enough of the ambiance. Mid-afternoon sunlight pours in through the storefront windows. The potted plants sitting on shelves mounted on the wall are thankful for the warmth of the sun. The tables are mismatched – small circles of a light birch wood and long rectangles of deep mahogany. Two worn sofas the color of creamer face each other while a vase of wildflowers sits on the glass coffee table in between the two. Towards the back is arguably the best part of the little shop—the counter where one orders coffees and baked goods. Muffins, croissants, bagels, and other treats patiently wait behind glass to be devoured. Coffee beans are freshly ground each morning, and the result is a cup of steaming or iced heaven on earth that sits atop that glass counter. Behind the counter, on this particular day and this particular afternoon, is Nina. Her name tag says so. Nina is a barista that works from noon to closing most weekdays and every Saturday. Her hair flows in long black coils when it is not piled on top of her head. With dark, warm skin, entrancing eyes the color of chocolate, and a smile brighter than the sun, Nina is used to the comments calling her beautiful. She truly is. Nina is gorgeous and she knows it, but she wants more. She wants people to praise her for more than just her looks. To be recognized for all of the hard work she has done in the last ten years of her life. She wants to hear her mother’s voice on the phone telling stories of bumping into people and all they want to do is talk about Nina’s accomplishments rather than her beauty. Yes, Nina is absolutely stunning, but she is so much more than that. After closing the coffee shop, she

goes back to her one-bedroom apartment where she studies for the MCAT for three hours a night or until she cannot keep her eyes open any longer. Nina then has a few hours of rest as she sleeps, only to wake up at five o’clock in the morning to quickly get ready and set off for her first job. She files paperwork, makes phone calls, and runs other errands for the Biology Pre-Med department of the university where she received her undergraduate degree. Usually, this job is reserved for current students and does not have the hours of six in the morning to noon, but Nina has been working for the department since her sophomore year, and they like her so much that she got to stay and get the hours she desired. After six hours in a white-bricked room made brighter with only fluorescent lights, Nina quickly drives downtown to the coffee shop while she scarfes down a granola bar. Nina always arrives five minutes late, but no one minds. She loves this place with her whole heart: the smell, the people, and the pay, which is a dollar above minimum wage. Plus, she gets a free latte every day. On Fridays—payday from both the university and the coffee shop—Nina sits down on her bed with her laptop and plans out her budget. She plans it out to the penny, and any excess money gets moved into her savings account. If the savings account was a jar where spare pennies and dollars go like seen in movies, a post-it with “med school” scribbled on it would be taped to the jar. Nina works hard, sleeps little, doesn’t spend a lot of time with her friends, counts her pennies and dimes closely, and drinks too much coffee. Nina is gorgeous. Nina is going to be a doctor. Rather than calling out a name for the most recent order, Nina steps out from behind the counter and brings a plate with a bagel and a cup of hot black coffee to an elderly man sitting at a small table by the storefront window. She remembers his order because of her impeccable memory, but also because he orders the same thing every single day. The elderly man smiles warmly up at Nina and thanks her. She returns the smile and turns to go back to work. He watches her walk away. The way Nina walks reminds him of Samantha. Oh, Samantha. The old man cannot look at anyone or anything without being reminded of her, and it has been several years since she passed. Then again, he feels as if everything or everyone reminds him of something or someone. That’s how it goes when one gets to his age. He stares down at his bagel and remembers the first time his son had a bagel. His son was so confused why his donut wasn’t sweet. The old man chuckles at the memory and sips his coffee from a scarlet mug. The fiery red of the mug reminds him of a pretty girl’s hair, though he cannot recall her name. He went on a date with that pretty girl when he was seventeen. They went to the movies and were standing in line when he saw Samantha. Oh, Samantha. She wore a robin-egg blue dress and had shoulder-length blonde hair that curled up at the ends. Samantha was in line for popcorn with her sister when she locked eyes with the cute boy in the ticket line. She flashed a smile, and he noticed her eyes seemed to match her dress. They held eye contact for a second more before Samantha’s sister nudged her forward in line. At that moment, the young man that would soon grow old and visit a coffee shop every day knew he was hopelessly infatuated with this girl. He wanted to swim in her eyes and be held in her arms. The old man slowly chewing his bagel remembers how he, as a seventeenyear-old boy, broke up with the redhead right then and there. He told her they wouldn’t work without much more explanation. The girl with the hair of fire didn’t cry, scream, or anything in between. Instead, she stomped as hard as she could onto the young man’s foot and left. His foot aches when it rains now, over fifty years later. But oh, it was worth it. The old man remembers how he limped

through the ticket line and bought one for the movie he saw Samantha and her sister go into. He entered the theater, saw that only ten seats were taken, and sat down directly next to the stunning girl in the blue dress. She only smiled at him and offered some popcorn. “I was hoping you’d come,” she whispered. Her voice sounded like honey. “I’m Samantha.” They were married next spring. The old man holds onto his mug with both hands and thinks about Samantha and her blue eyes. His heart warms and aches at the same time. The elderly man’s eyes wander towards the young lady sitting on one of the sofas. She sits with her legs crossed, an iced latte in one hand, a book in the other. She reminds the old man of his granddaughter. The young woman has short mousy brown hair that doesn’t quite curl but does more so than just gentle waves. She wears a faded red sweatshirt and jeans with rips at the knees. Round, wire-rimmed glasses start to slip down her nose as she peers down at her book. She studies English at the same university Nina went to for her undergraduate degree. The young English student comes here often and always orders an iced latte. She drinks it while reading a classic novel. She doesn’t particularly like classics; they’re just fine, but she’d rather read something else. Classics are the only things she has been reading lately though. She realized in one of her classes that every one of her peers seemed to be more well-read and intelligent than her. Writing and breaking-down texts had always been tasks that she was just naturally good at and loved—until she came to college. Everyone in her English courses seemed to breeze through the classes while she struggled to understand Whitman and Tennyson. To hopefully lessen her imposter syndrome, as a suggestion from her therapist, the young English student made it her goal to read as many classics that were referenced inside and outside of her classes. Today, however, she finds it harder than usual to concentrate on Holden Caulfield’s cynicism. About two hours earlier, she was sitting in a doctor’s office listening to the conclusion her doctor and her therapist had come to. She has depression. Is she surprised by this? Not really, but she doesn’t want it to be true. She wonders why she can’t be normal, especially when the people in her life ask her why she’s so...so...sad all the time. She never seems to be able to give them the answers they’re looking for. And why is she sad? She has a decent life, better than decent, so she’s always been told that there should be nothing to be sad about. She started going to therapy because of her imposter syndrome, the weight constantly on her chest, and the crying spells that happened for no reason. She is one of those people that cries at everything, happy or sad, but the tears that sent her to therapy were different. There was more to them than sadness; it was a mixture of emotions, so confusing and blended together that she found herself unable to describe what she was feeling. The student flips the page, knowing she hasn’t really read a single word since she sat down. Her mind keeps wandering to the pills in her purse. After her doctor’s appointment, she went to the pharmacy to pick up the new prescription (Is it Zoloft? Prozac? She can’t remember right now). The pharmacy is across the street from this coffee shop, and after the day she’d had, the reader wanted to treat herself to coffee. She turns another page, well aware that she’ll have to come back to this chapter. Her mind races with the word “depression” over and over again. There is finally a word to describe what she has been going through, and it is a daunting word. She doesn’t want that word looming over her for the rest of her life. She wants to be more than just the pills in her purse. As the young English student sips the last of her drink, she becomes hopeful for the first time in a very long time. She is hopeful the medication will help and that she won’t let a word define who she is.

The English student makes eye contact with the man sitting at a table across from her. She notices the pencil in his hand making quick strokes in a sketchbook. The reader snaps her eyes back to her book as her cheeks warm. The artist is attractive. She has seen him here before, and each time she catches herself looking at him. He has dirty blond hair that curls atop his head and hazel eyes that flick back and forth from his drawing to the reader. He couldn’t be more than a year or two older than the English student, but his hands are worn and look closer to the elderly man’s hands than those of a young man in his twenties. Different color paint is dried on his knuckles and fingertips. The artist loves the way his hands look—they remind him of his dream. He wishes to paint a mural downtown, one to capture the essence of his hometown. He loves this town and community so much, even though there isn’t a place for an artist to get work around here. The artist makes money by doing commission work for strangers online and by selling a few of his own pieces here and there. It’s enough to scrape by, but he always gets water here at the coffee shop to save a little more. He comes here not for the coffee, but rather, to sketch. The patrons here are his favorite subject. He has captured Nina’s long curls and the way she leans over her MCAT book during her break perfectly. His sketchbook has pages upon pages of the elderly man from different angles. The artist will sketch anyone who walks in, but he always hopes the reader will come in. She is his favorite to draw, as he loves to sketch the way she bites her lip when she concentrates on her book, the way her eyes water and her nose becomes red when she stumbles across a sad scene, and the wavy hair that ends just above her shoulders. Each time he sees her, there is something new to notice, to sketch, and to slowly fall in love with. Today, it is how the reader twists a golden ring on her pointer finger. The artist smiles to himself and adds a ring on her finger in his sketch. One day, he will go up to her and ask about the book she is reading, show her the sketches and try to convince her it isn’t weird, and maybe even ask her on a date. But today is not that day, and that day will probably not come for a while. The artist’s heart still aches from his last relationship— his ex-girlfriend left him for his best friend. When it happened, it didn’t feel real. Things like that only happen in the movies, not to the artist, who was completely in love with that girl. Though the girl didn’t quite love the artist, and suddenly his life felt like a bad soap opera. The artist feels too damaged to talk to the reader, and each time he sees her reading a book he likes, he has to bite his tongue. This pretty girl sitting on the couch wouldn’t want to deal with someone damaged, with someone that doesn’t have a steady income, with someone that is constantly caked in paint. Or so, that is what the artist tells himself. Maybe one day, the artist will ask the reader about the book she is buried in. Maybe one day, the elderly man will tell Nina the color of her shirt reminds him of Samantha, and she will sit and listen to his story. Maybe one day as she orders coffee, the reader will notice her school’s mascot on a pin attached to Nina’s bag, and they’ll strike up a conversation. Maybe one day, the artist will show his sketches to the elderly man, who then pulls a yellowing picture of a girl with blue eyes out of his pocket and asks the artist if he could draw her. Maybe one day, Nina will give the artist a free cup of coffee for asking about how her studying is going. Maybe one day, as the reader is leaving, the old man will stop her and say, “You remind me of my granddaughter,” with so much love in his eyes that the reader begins to cry. Maybe one day, these lonely people will find out that they’re not so lonely after all. Or, they could at least be lonely together. However, today is not that day.