I thought of you today. I walked by that cool little coffee place we loved so much; but instead of jamming my hands deeper in my pockets, dropping my chin to hurry past, I walked inside.
The barista lit up as I entered, but clearly he was looking for you. His smile dimmed a little when he noted I was alone. You KNOW he had a crush on you, right? Of course you do—you read men like books: no words, BIG PICTURES. But you were always so great about it: kind, demure. Your cappuccino would arrive with an extra biscotti, an elaborate image in the foam, and you would smile, then reach across me for the caddy, letting your hand linger on my forearm as you plucked two raw sugars before pouring them down the side of the cup, careful not to mar the surface masterpiece before absolutely necessary. You sent a subtle message, but a clear one, nonetheless.
I order your milky concoction, though I prefer to take mine “hot, black, and bitter,” which made you wrinkle your forehead, knitting eyebrows. You’d insist I try a sip of yours, but you’d give a small, emphatic shake of your head when I offered to reciprocate. Mine was too strong, too dark, too hot. But today I want the pale sweetness that reminds me of you. I sit, staring at the small bud vase and its tiny succulent. We would argue over their reality; but you would swat at me if I pinched the leaves too hard—you didn’t want me to “hurt” it, so I never knew if these centerpieces were silk or cellulose. Without you here for their protection, I solved the mystery. But in your absence, knowing the answer isn’t nearly as satisfying as I thought it’d be.
Crisp fall days with matching coffee-flavored kisses, your cool hand scraping slowly along the overhang of my stubble-speckled jawbone and down past the racing pulse in my neck, coming to rest on the divot where my clavicles meet. Such small hands—the time it took you to span my shoulder to shoulder felt like an eternity, making me feel as though my chest were a football field, a continent. I’d flex one side as you got neeeeearly all the way across, just to bump your hand a little, and you’d giggle, teeth gently clicking with the newly-broken smiles, and you’d roll your eyes and call me stupid, but your hand never left my heart. Then my favorite: you’d rest the hollow of your eye socket against the apple of my cheekbone, and I could feel your lashes graze my skin, oh, so gently.
I only miss you sometimes. I know you’re happy. And there are days I can barely believe the amazing things I get to do, see, and experience, and with whom. But then there are times when I hear the clink of teaspoon on the inside of an earthenware mug and I remember when I was half of a contented whole and it makes my soul smile.