Forever, Again

Past : Sep 17, 2015

Aliya's day had started in a frenzied rush, her sneakers scuffing against the pavement as she bolted from the library to her shift at the Russet Cap Coffee café. Her breath formed small clouds in the brisk Vermont air, her thoughts scattered between the assignment deadlines and the pages of notes she'd just crammed into her backpack. As she pushed open the café's  wooden door, the warm glow from within and the rich aroma of roasted coffee beans offered a comforting embrace.

The café was a quaint haven, the walls were a pristine white, adorned with large, monochrome photographs of coffee beans and barista hands artistically captured in black and white. Streamlined, silver espresso machines gleamed under strategically placed track lighting, and the air was fragrant with freshly ground coffee. The furniture was uniformly black and angular, offering a stark contrast to the soft, warm throws placed over the backs of chairs for the comfort of the patrons. The aesthetic was polished and professional, much like the image Aliya was expected to project every day.

She glanced around, the emptiness echoing her sudden burden of handling the morning rush alone. Her expression, a mask of composed annoyance, mirrored the café's immaculate surfaces — cool, hard, and reflective. The manager's note lay crumpled slightly from her tight grip, the words hastily scribbled:

"Aliya, both Faraz and Thema are out sick today. I'm counting on you to manage the morning. —Marie"

"Perfect timing," she scoffed, smoothing the note out on the counter as if ironing the wrinkles could simplify her predicament. She twisted a strand of her hair, tying it back with a precision that matched the café's orderly vibe.

As the morning unfolded, the café swelled with its regular crowd. Mr. Jensen, who owned the bookstore next door, was the first to walk in. His presence was a comforting constant in Aliya's chaotic morning.

"Morning, Aliya! Bit of a one-woman show today?" he observed, eyeing her bustling about.

Aliya smiled wearily as she handed him his usual—a strong black coffee with no sugar. "You could say that. It's just me today. Faraz and Thema are out sick."

"Ah, that's rough. You've got everything under control here?" Mr. Jensen asked, concern flickering behind his spectacles.

"Trying my best," Aliya replied, managing a brief chuckle. Aliya found a rhythm as she moved from table to table, taking orders and serving up the café's signature blends. Each interaction was brief but warm, typical of the small community feel of the café.

But Thursdays brought a different tempo to the Café. As lunchtime faded into afternoon, the crowd thinned, and the atmosphere shifted. The bustle subsided into a quieter, more reflective mood. This was when Dylan appeared. Every Thursday, without fail, he'd push open the café door at precisely 1:30 PM, his arrival marked by a gentle jingle of the bell above the door.

Aliya, wiping down a recently deserted table, caught the familiar sound and instinctively paused. Her eyes followed Dylan's deliberate strides to his usual refuge by the window. There was an unspoken claim to that spot, underscored by the golden maple leaves fluttering against the glass like quiet spectators to his routine.

He unfurled his presence with a ritualistic precision: the laptop snapped open with a click, papers fanned out in an orderly arc, and headphones laid down like an old friend. His order was an echo of his steadfast nature—a large black coffee, unadorned, and a classic chocolate pistachio croissant.

As Dylan settled, Aliya's gaze lingered on the steam rising from his coffee, forming fleeting ghosts above the cup. Her fingers tightened around the damp cloth in her hand, the texture a harsh contrast to the softness of her memories. She thought of her last call with her mother back in India.