The Coffee Shop Near The Train Tracks
The glasses clink and condensation drips down the sides of the cups. Scattered voices fill the room as I settle into the corner of the booth, laughing. I take a sip of the bitter, golden drink waiting for it to relax my body from a long day, meanwhile, my friends start delving into antics about work. I slowly tune out, avoiding the topic given that we had just finished our shift, and instead I look out the window across the street. I see the coffee shop near the train tracks. It is late at night with its windows blacked out, benches empty, beautifully still…haunting. The talking slowly turns into a dull hum fading into the background as I relive the warmth of it all. Because all I see apart from the quiet building across the street are all the memories we’d created there. The coffee between my hands, the cars passing by quietly outside, the golden tips in your brown hair, your smile. The feeling of missing you grows in my chest.
I recall meeting there for the first time, you were sitting on the bench waiting outside. When we embraced, the electricity rushed through my body, the magnetic pull extended the comforting hug regardless of your hands now being by your side. Our faces mirror each other’s gleaming smiles, love-struck as we head inside.
The churning sound of the coffee machine pulls me deeper into the aroma. I stared at the menu, unsure of what to get because even though you loved coffee, I didn’t drink much of it. The rare moment I had indulged in a cup of coffee was when I stayed with my Abuela in Mexico. The peaceful mornings as she prepared breakfast, the earthy scent greeting me as I entered the kitchen. Walking towards the stove to help her, but she insisted I sit down. Her loving hands guided me to the table. Spoiling me in a way only abuelas know how to. “Ten mija.”, she would say as she came over with a mug filled—steam wafting into the air. I could never say no to my Abuela, plus I never hated coffee, I just wouldn’t drink it regularly. We sat enjoying our pan con café, silently, understanding. Something my parents also enjoyed while I was growing up. Pan con café every morning and sometimes at night as we watched Sabado Gigante before heading to bed. The television glow bounced off my parents` faces as I rested my head on my mother’s thighs, her brushing my hair with her fingers. The smell of the coffee familiar and soothing regardless of ever having a sip.
No, I don’t drink coffee, but I loved you, so there I was ordering an Americano. No milk, no sugar. We sat outside, shaded by the lush trees, surrounded by colorful tables, and the movement of afternoon strollers passing by the train tracks. I stare at the deep tint of the coffee and then look into the hue of her light brown eyes. They are somehow both soft and piercing at once, firmly grasping while gently holding me. Silent smiles as we take each other in, sipping. Your coffee is blended with oat milk to match your fairer skin tone. Our eyes locked as we began to fall into the rhythm of conversations about nothing and yet having the power to be absolutely everything. The train passed by in increments matching the steady flow of our words, uninterrupted by its loud beat. Lost in our love, we continue to sip on our coffees.
As we continued our visits there our comfort and affection towards each other grew, along with our love being out in the world. Now, when I see you, I lovingly embrace you, your head nuzzled into my neck, allowing the magnetic pull to linger before pulling away to go inside. We would see coworkers from down the street as they came to get their morning startup, normalizing us being together…. almost. We stayed in our bubble, guarding our true relationship for ourselves, selfishly basking in our own little world, unknown. My mind skips through time to the memory of us going to the second floor of the shop for the first time. A different ambiance that nurtured our intimacy with its seclusion and dim, colorful lighting. Our fingers move from cupping our mugs from our faces, laughs spilling out, to holding each other's tender hands.
Eventually, we went from grabbing a coffee and would walk over to the nearby park, holding each other on a laid-out blanket, tasting the coffee on our breaths as we kissed. I never thought I’d love coffee. We were there for what always felt like forever talking about our plans, boosting each other up as we shared our dreams. Although it felt like forever, we never were satisfied, coping with the lack of time we had.
Soon that love began to shift, outside factors pushing for change, as time went on. At our last time at the coffee shop, we sat in the corner of the bottom floor by the window, the train rolling by, this time cutting through as we both felt the undertone of our fate creep up. It was like a movie with a picture-perfect small town as our backdrop. Fake, but so fucking real, everything we felt reminded us of that. We stared into each other's eyes with an unspoken understanding of our mutual confusion, our struggle to hold on, to fix this. The coffee no longer as warm, time passing, as we worked up the strength to talk out a solution we knew did not exist. We have this heartfelt and honest conversation with fear creeping in as it seems it must end at some point. We continue to sit there, eyes subtly desperate, both stubborn. After that, we never went back, and I have yet to disrupt our tomb of “what was”.
That place is stained with memories of you and I love it, but it hurts. I sit here at a bar in the middle of the night across from the coffee shop by the train tracks with friends, their conversation starting to pull me back. I take another sip from my cold beer aching for the warm coffee I thought I’d never love and I am clouded with the past of that place. Of us. Of you.
