The coffee shop was a quiet refuge from the chaos outside, with its soft murmurs and the hum of an espresso machine. I sat by the window, my black coffee cooling in front of me, a paperback novel splayed open but unread.
A couple walked in, all giggles and whispers, their presence punctuating the otherwise tranquil air. They chose a table near the back, right by the wall lined with mismatched books and potted plants. The girl, with messy bun, oversized sweater and leggings, laughed at something the guy said, her eyes lighting up as if she'd found a secret she only knew.
He reached across the table and took her hand, fingers intertwining with the ease of long practice, or perhaps the thrill of new discovery. She leaned in, resting her chin on her free hand, looking at him like he was the answer to every question she'd never asked. They ordered something sweet, two lattes with artful swirls, and never let go of each other's gaze.
I watched them from my corner, this little bubble of affection and hope in a world that often felt like it had forgotten both. There was a purity in their interactions, a raw, unguarded tenderness that seemed almost alien in its sincerity. I couldn't help but feel a pang of something – nostalgia maybe, or the ghost of a longing I'd buried years ago and haven't dug up since.
The barista called out their order, and the guy fetched the drinks, placing them carefully on the table before her. She smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that seemed to warm the air around her. They clinked their cups together in a toast, the sound a delicate chime in the otherwise hushed room.
I sipped my coffee, the bitter taste grounding me, a stark contrast to their saccharine moment. They chatted, their voices low and intimate, punctuated by laughter and soft exclamations. It was a scene from a different life, one where love was still a balm, not a battle.
As they leaned in for a kiss, I turned back to my book, the words blurring into a haze of ink. Their world was still untouched by the inevitable disillusionment, still bright and hopeful. I raised my cup in a silent gesture, a quiet acknowledgment of their fleeting happiness.
For now, they had this moment. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
YOU ARE READING
Life in the mundane
Short StoryOne shot scene (in a series of shorts with no connection) written over the last decade, about longing, one sided love, people observations and hoping to find courage to move forward
