Phantasmagoria

12-Keru

The wind sings a little too loud that the sun hid beneath the dreary cotton balls squeezing a few drops of rainfall. I pull my coat closer to my chest as I enter a rickety old café, inhaling the bittersweet taste of nostalgia. The door squeaks as I go in.

There is a vinyl record on the counter and a few beige decors on the side. The walls are sepia but I'm guessing it might have been lighter before, worn only by the merciless ticking of time. It stood there, holding a few statement frames, old car plates, and pictures of people I don't recognize. Only a few people are here today and most of them are alone, buried in the crisp of today's newspapers and tabloids.

My hair is braided to the side so that it cascades towards my waist. I chose a white turtleneck top tucked in jeans, underneath a beige coat and paired it with the same color of boots. I look funny, almost like a spilt latte.

Coffee beans inspire me. It brings the joy of the past and the pain of longing. As if the smoke that comes off were souls of an almost forgotten memory.

"You like coffee?" Dreon asks. I look at him and found myself drowning in his eyes. It is the exact color of coffee, rich and deep. He grabs a spoon and intricately digs a perfect ratio of cream and sugar. As if any excess grain would hurt him.

"No. I like the idea of it, though. You?"

"It makes me feel alive." He takes a sip and I catch a faint sparkle in his eyes. I hug the porcelain with my palms to keep me warm.

"Do you like it bitter?" I ask.

"No. Bittersweet would be fine." He smiles.

"Me neither. Plain coffee is too dark, so dark it must be the truth." I laugh. I take a spoonful of cream and sugar to my cup. "It needs a few sprinkles of creamy white lies and sweet pretense." I stir my coffee.

"White lies and pretense?" he asks.

"The world reeks of both. But for so long, it had become unnoticeable for some, and fragrant for many. Who could blame them? It tastes better this way. A world of truth is dark and scary. In fact, there might be no world at all."

"So lies are necessary?"

"Uh huh. A little of every negative thing is necessary. How would you know if you are living in goodness when you do not know evil? How do you know you're right when there is no wrong?"

"Then it is morally impossible to live in Utopia?"

I laugh. "Utopia literally means 'nowhere'. An ideal world only exists in the minds of the hopeful. And the ignorant."

He looks away and stares at the quiet humming of life outside. I study his face, from the soft curls on his head, to his sharp nose and flushed cheeks. It was perfectly chiselled, like a sculpture against a blur.

"Who are you?" he asks.

"Which me is who and when is are?" I ask.

He sighs. "Who are you in my life?"

I pause and pretended to think deeply. I take a long sip before I answer.

"Someone who will have your heart broken, I presume?" I chuckle. "I guess I am a part of the story that whoever created us is weaving. Who knows? Who do you want me to be?"

He sips his coffee.

"Why do you make things complicated?"

"I don't. There are things that deserved more attention than it gets." I say. The café is stubbornly quiet. I could hear the faint rhythm of rain outside blending with the pouring of coffee around us. Drips. Drops. Drips.

"You read, don't you?" I ask.

"Yes."

"What book changed you?"

Dreon remains quiet for a moment. He likes silence, I could tell. Perhaps it was his refuge against all the chaos around him.

"All of them. All of the books I've read, the texts I've memorized. All of those words are tattooed in me. I guess all of it changed me. Or maybe it didn't. Maybe all of it is me."

"Who are you?" I ask.

"I don't know. Perhaps somebody's somebody. Or maybe I am made up of words I choose to tell." He stares at his cup, its blackness echoing his soul.

"Or of words you choose to hide." I reply. "I guess you are what matters to you."

"If nothing matters to me, then I'm nothing?" He retorts.

"Aren't we all?" I laugh. "I hope you find out who you are. Or create one. One that isn't just somebody's somebody. Just, somebody." I say.

He nibbles at his cheesecake as I stare at him. He looks so alive yet so lifeless. But I like how he doesn't pry. His silence makes me feel safe, if there may be safety in this world.

"Have you ever tried drinking a different coffee?" I ask.

"No. I like it this way." He was about to take another sip when I took his cup and put a spoonful of cocoa and a little bit more sugar. I call a server and ask to put whipped cream on top.

"Too sweet." He winces as he takes his first sip.

"But different." I smile.