The Coffee Stop

"I'll just have a cup of coffee, please. No cream, no sugar, just black."

The soft, lazy melody of a jazz duet drifts though the coffee shop as I wait. The pair seamlessly match brass and voice, creating a smooth sensation that rests on the skin and dances in the ears. It's nothing memorable, a simple twist on an old Vaughan tune, but right now and right here, it's beautiful. I find myself humming along, trying to keep up with their rendition. Eyes shut, I bask in the warm feeling of anticipation. Today is going to be a good day.

"One coffee," chirps the barista, as she hands me a white mug filled with some exotic blend. Ethiopian, maybe. It's not like I can ever tell the difference. It could be coming from Jersey for all I know. Finding a comfy chair in the corner, I settle down amongst the hipsters and college kids. One sip tells me that the coffee's good. I guess that's all that really matters. Coffee's good, I'm good, music's good. Good, good, good.

Five thirty-five. I've got about twenty minutes before I need to pick her up. Maybe I should be late? She always jokes that I can never make it to anything on time. Tonight, I could be late on purpose. It would make for such a cute anecdote. Something to tell the kids, the grandkids. "Oh, you remember that night, honey," I would say. "Yeah, you were late, as usual," she'd quip back and we'd both laugh.

The jazz song crescendos then ends, mimicking my own giddy imagination. What was I thinking? Little mistakes lead to big mistakes, and women never like big mistakes. I've got my whole life to make little memorable moments, I don't need to force-feed them into some contrived Lifetime miniseries. But, damned if I didn't feel like I was living in some sort of sappy dream world right now.

In the background, the faux Vaughen switches to Holiday and kicks off a new song. I pull the small black box from my pocket and open it with a snap. The ring is beguiling in its simplicity. It's perfect, as she is.

I check my watch for the time. Five-forty. Nerves kick in. My thoughts race over every possible future, every imaginable outcome. I take a few more sips and leave the coffee half full on the table. An upbeat melody, some early Holiday tune, follows me as I grab the keys out of my pocket and hurry out the door.

Tonight, I will be early.

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Just a bit of fiction, thought up while listening to Jazz. "I" doesn't mean me in this case.