Espresso Love (A Dystopian Japan Novel) #Wattys2014

Golden Child

- Golden Child -

"They say your order reveals the depths of your being. Like wearing your heart on your sleeve."

That was the first thing she said to me that day. It had been a coffee shop, three blocks down the street from campus, tucked between a little hair salon and a four-storey Kinokuniya bookstore. It's the bookstore that kept the café full of interesting characters, streaming in and out - books, coffee and cell phones. But surprisingly enough, only a few spend time at the dusty wooden round tables. Tables that look like they have been fished, hook, line and sinker, mismatched and all, out of an antique store from the belly of a fish. I have always been one of those few. Nothing's better than sitting down with a nice paperback novel, cover rolled behind the book in one hand. Books are meant to be read, I always tell whoever happened to inquire why I hold them the way I do.

She didn't talk about the book in my hand however – it was a DeLillo novel – she was talking about my coffee. Surely, one would think to talk about coffee in a coffee shop, yet, that somehow wasn't a common topic. But with her, it was always about the coffee.

She sits down, sets her purse on her lap as if she's bursting to tell her life story or how this girl in her class is a prude – leans forward, so her shirt collar falls just a little too low, causing me to avert my eyes to nowhere in particular – and looks straight at me.

I don't know whether to be intimidated or intrigued. She looks young and carefree. I am certain she's a freshman. But to sit down in front of a stranger like the best of friends and begin with such a profound and penetrating phrase is inviting all kinds of strange impressions. So I straighten a bit to create some distance between us, to say we aren't so acquainted.

She purses her lips and smiles wryly and I make a noncommittal sound of agreement, wondering what to say. She waits and I wait and then I hide behind my cup. The pearl white, smooth porcelain greets my lips. My warm coffee. The temperature of the soul. I watch the depths of its darkness churn and froth and swell, streams of white cream in a swirling galaxy as if it would tell me the answer.

She's still staring at me when I look up.

"My order changes according to mood, season, and my date," I say.

She shrugs. "Then you're a wishy-washy kind of person, like driftwood."

I take it as a compliment and tell her it means I'm adaptive to my environment.

Her nose crinkles in melodic laughter. "Sure, if that helps you sleep at night."

I wait, believing for a moment that she will introduce herself. But she doesn't.

"What's your order?"

She looks at me for a while; she's weighing the value of my question. "Remember this," she says, "tall caramel chai tea latte, soy, 120 degrees, extra whip."

"Don't forget. It can make a big difference," she adds.

I tell her I'll remember. I could imagine the barista at the counter: this young woman with short brown hair - must have been in her teens - bowing and smiling as kindly as she could upon hearing the order. But it would remain in question whether the barista was impressed or not.

I ponder how the order reflects on her person. The contents of her drink aren't visible behind the brim of her cup. She probably drank half of it already; half-empty or half-full. But somehow her order fits like the last tessera in a mosaic. Without it, the picture just won't be complete. If she isn't holding her cup of tall caramel chai tea latte, soy, 120 degrees, extra whip, she might just fall apart, piece by piece, in front of my eyes.