Coffee and lovers often mix. But each coffee shop I’ve been to exuded a different atmosphere, a different love affair. I can always feel the ambiance and the pulse of the people there. Different folks, different strokes. People converge here to talk, to see and to be seen and sometimes to be left alone. Or to heal a broken heart. The mocha-colored environment seemed an endless rainbow to me.
I’ve met my partner in a coffee shop.
And my lover, too. Maybe my lover sensed my love for coffee long before the person knew me, a common denominator for both of us. We drank our coffee; we fell in love with each other. I was sure then that both our cups overflowed with love and joy as we talked about our future. My partner had her cup in Singapore.
And it was here, over a cup of course, that I cried myself, over the pain of our (my lover’s) break-up later. A close friend shared my dissent for 'that person', as we drank our cupful. Desperation, too, seated at my side.
Coffee allowed me to meet different personalities. I’ve discussed contrasting views, haggle like a businessman, and carried away with different trips in life. Over a cup, I’ve traveled to distant shores in different times. I’ve bid my farewells and goodbyes in coffee shops. Cup after cups of coffee have sent me to bed and awaken me in the middle of the night. My dealings with coffee have been as mysterious as a cappuccino or a latte, even more inexplicable than my shadowy affairs.
I was forced to stop drinking coffee for a short while when my doctor advised me not to, but it has not stopped me from visiting coffee shops. The scent and smell of coffee were as tempting as the fruit of life offered by Eve to Adam, making my medical fasting for coffee to last only for a while. With or without my doctor’s consent I splurged myself cup after cup. As if my very life itself depended on coffee.
And I haven’t stopped since then. When death shall have overcome me, I would still want my cup. And like death, each cup is worth a delightful wait.