Coffee

If we ever have coffee I’ll drink mine black.

No sugar.

Not because I’m trying to prove anything.

I’ve simply had enough bitter things in my life to know the difference between bitter and strong.

A good Cuban coffee is misunderstood.

Most people make it in an espresso machine now. It’s smoother that way.

Pressure has a way of polishing the edges.

I grew up with stovetop coffee.

Thicker.

Darker.

The kind that lingers in the cup and in the morning.

Neither is wrong.

Just different.

I suppose people are like that too.

Some arrive polished.

Some arrive carrying more body, more history, more weather.

I’ve learned not to mistake one for the other. But we’re not really here to talk about coffee.

Coffee is only the excuse.

A warm cup between two people trying quietly, to become less strange.

Before we get too far, I’ll silence my phone. It won’t touch the table again.

If I’m having coffee with you, I’m having coffee with you.

That matters to me.

I won’t rush you.

I like coffee that takes its time, and people who do the same.

You’ll probably notice I don’t sit completely still.

It’s not anxiety.

I just move.

My father was the same. My sister too. Apparently, stillness skipped this family.

I’m trying not to cross my legs. My right peroneal nerve has decided that’s no longer an option. Crossing my legs doesn’t quiet my mind. It quiets my body.

Just enough that I can pay attention to yours.

That’s coffee with me.

I may move.

I may laugh.

I may say something ridiculous before I say something true.

But I am listening.

I’ll ask how you take your coffee, not because I care that much about coffee but because I want to know how you became you.

I like people.

Not crowds.

People.

One at a time.

Across a table.

I don’t need us to agree.

I don’t need us to have lived the same life.

I just need to leave the table feeling like we actually met.

Not our jobs.

Not our titles.

Not the polished versions we’ve learned to introduce.

Just…

us.

I don’t collect acquaintances.

I collect conversations

I keep thinking about years later. Something happens when people talk. A sentence opens like a small door.

You’ll say something ordinary, and suddenly I can see it.

The kitchen.

The street.

The old car.

The room where something changed.

I don’t just listen to what you say.

I notice how you arrive inside your own sentences.

The pause.

The small laugh before something serious.

The way your eyes move when a memory gets too close.

I don’t know how to explain it.

I just start seeing you.

Not the version that knows how to sit in public.

The one underneath.

The one who slips out for half a second and hopes no one saw.

I usually do.

Maybe that’s why I remember people.

Not because I remember everything. Because I remember where their words took me.

I don’t listen to respond.

I listen because people are always leaving clues.

I don’t remember the watch. The shoes. I remember the sentence.

The one they said without thinking.

The one that explained everything.

And usually when they think no one noticed, I did.

I don’t always say it right away. Sometimes I just sit there holding my coffee, grateful that for a moment someone trusted the room enough to become real.