I walked into the café tonight looking only for a hot cup of coffee

and space. 

The usual interaction between barista and customer happened.

“How can I help you?”

Well you can’t really.

“A small black coffee, please.”

“Would you like anything with that?”

Nothing that you can offer.

“No, that’s everything.”

Funds are exchanged and I stand at the far end of the counter waiting.

It’s raining outside, it’s late, it’s a typical winter night. 

The door opens and shuts ever so often and I can taste the cold ground.

I still can’t remember the amount of people in the café

but things begin to blur together on nights like this.

I sit down, warm mug pressed to my fingers. 

I close my eyes and attempt to gather myself.

I look down into the mug and then up.

At you.

You walked in and I smelled snow so I quickly moved my eyes to the window.

No snow.

Just you.

You wore this wide mouth that sang the same melody as my aching mind.  Your hair wirey and soaking. 

Your eyes never move to the menu.

You approached the counter while sliding your hands into your jacket pockets. 

You stifled a laugh at the perkiness of the barista and asked for a coffee, black.

I watched you so intently. 

I felt your steps as you paced from one end of the counter to the other.

It was as if I’d known you from another place. 

You were like those few words in my favorite book – those words that followed me daily.  I felt my mind pull from the depths of this dark winter night and

start spinning like a movie reel.

But these heavy boots.

These heavy

fucking boots.

I looked down into my coffee, took a sip, took a breath, and looked up.

I watched you walk out the door and the night envelop you whole.

I looked back into my mug and

sunk deeper into my heavy boots.