I think I'll die here, sitting in this chair, sipping this cup of coffee. Any day now, this disheveled ceiling above me will collapse and that disheveled barista will go down with me, and it'll be tonight. We're the only two in this little place and that's probably best. She'll never know how shitty the coffee really is and how much I hate coffee anyway, and she'll never know how shoddy this construct really is until the beloved patchwork ceiling falls in on us and our hearts will bleed out of our heads onto the unexpecting floor. Tonight is a night of truth. Reason ran out long ago and love is what chased it off. What have I said to her? “I'd like this drink.” And what has she said to me? “That's my favorite.” A quick “It's ready” and “Thanks” and our lives were done crossing. But I love her, not for the drink and not for her charm (not her strongest suit anyway). She's not sure when to smile, she's still getting the hang of the service, and the cash register doesn't seem to like her. But she's what I know in this moment, she's my familiar, the priestess of my sanctum on this rainy day and lonely night. She is my sister, my mother, my daughter, my lover, my friend. My barista. At least for tonight and at least until we die. She puts her hair up and wipes down the counter, she's forgotten I'm here and I've lost track of time. I stand and walk toward the door, keeping an eye on the ceiling. A crack forms and follows me as I move. She's not paying attention. The door is 5 feet away... now 4... 3. The crack moves jaggedly along overhead and flakes fall onto my shoulders and onto her counter. She wipes it down again without question and says, “Goodnight” to who I can only assume is me. I nod and push the door open and enter the cool, wet night and all of its darkness.
What went wrong? Maybe next time.
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