We both got cappuccinos. I feel strangely about cappuccinos. It’s always cappuccinos, specifically. Espressos are fine, Americanos, too. You can’t do latte art on an americano. Hot water, and some espresso, and you’re good to go. The espresso must be the easiest to do. Grab and go. Throw it down your throat like a shot of cheap vodka, open your eyes and the world is suddenly sharper. And you can generally get a good espresso just about anywhere, add hot water and voila, Americano. Not like cappuccinos. Cappuccinos demand time, and patience. A good cappuccino is a gift. Done right, it is a cup of frothy heaven. The first step of a cappuccino is stirring. It is always too beautiful to stir. The second step is to sip. I can never get to the coffee under the foam, I would, if I had stirred it. And so, every time I get a cappuccino I promise myself, never again.
He likes his cappuccino. He did it the right way, stirring it ruthlessly as soon as the barista placed it on the counter. I should have gotten an Americano. “Do you like yours?” he asks, looking at the table behind me. “It’s alright.” The cafe is very pretty. The walls look as if the painter accidentally mixed a whole lot of coffee into cement, a sort of in-between comforting grey. It has these little nooks in the corners, and extra hollow walls clearly designed by a mind that understands nooks and crannies. Each cranny is its own universe, with a charging port and always, extra pens. I was an insect , hiding among these beautiful crannies when he found me, with his cappuccino. I had been lost in a research paper whose title I do not remember. He had been radiant. He was the kind of guy who walked into a cafe and asked the barista about their day. People looked up when he walked into a room, and automatically craned their necks to hear what he was saying. “Are you sure?” he was looking at me now. So were four other women from the next table over.
“Yeah, I love cappuccinos.”
He prefers to be in the middle of things, where the ‘work gets done’. Where we can be in the view of more people I imagine. I can almost never hear his sentences entirely , on account of all the people, all the time. So, I liked to play this game- where I made up ridiculous endings to his otherwise mundane sentences. They usually always started the same way, “So the other day this girl comes up to me -and tells me I just farted. Lisa, she really was quite pretty and smart, she reminded me - of a pink feathered elephant. And I thought I should catch up with her, you know as friends would -at tea parties with geese. Anyway, turns out she’s moving into town -with five toes. I must have told you about her, anyway, I figured her and I should get back -to rob the bank.” **It is a truly strange feeling when one is faced by the ordinary-ness of oneself. You can go through your whole life knowing it, and hoping nobody else notices. I had spent a long time hoping and praying that he would not notice. He never did notice much, anyway. “ You know with her being in town and all. I’d really hate for her to be at the mercy of strange men, you know? I have to be the bigger person here. But, yeah I figured I should let you know.” He said this with as much care as one would exert while stubbing a toe. He had to be the bigger man. Both our coffees had gone cold. I should get the Americano next time.
I had never considered being a stand in for someone else. For his special someone, I imagine. Someone who liked cappuccinos and made people stare at her wherever she went. The kind that asked baristas about their day. But of course, he and this girl couldn’t both be doing that, it would be strange. Perhaps they were too similar, and he would grow tired of her and want to see me again. But then, I would have to have cappuccinos again. We’d come here to this grey cafe and order two cappuccinos, and let them go cold. His because he would have to stop talking to take a sip, and mine because I never wanted to drink it in the first place.
“Thanks for letting me know.”
