Morning Coffee

I push open the door to let myself in. Inside, it is warm and humid, a welcoming shelter amidst the wind and snow outside. It’s half past midnight. The café is still crowded. I find myself a vacant seat by the

counter and order hot chocolate. I like this café. The seats are comfortable, the music is tolerable and best of all, it’s open 24 hours. It’s just that they don’t know how to brew good coffee. So I order a mug of hot chocolate.

I give them my card. The staff on the other side recognizes me with a smile. I soon return to my seat with the hot chocolate. Mug in one hand, I open my books and start solving down the problems. Half past one, I take out my earphones and stretch. The many couples have left half an hour ago, revealing the individuals who had been silent all along. Middle and high school students, like me, studying through the night, are now the only customers here. I get my things and move to the seats where I can recharge my gadgets.

I suddenly get cold. The door close again and we’re insulated again. I glance at my watch. It’s almost two. I know it is her. She comes every night, approximately at two a clock. She sits on the windowside, across the café from my seat. After few minutes, she gets up to buy herself a drink. I never know what it is that she buys. She never drinks it. I go on solving my problems.

It’s two-thirty. I’m too sleepy to continue my study. I take out my laptop and tablet. I take the pen out of its holder. The solid metal feels good in my fingers as I start to take the outline of the café. It’s a hard night like every other, already three students have their face against their books. The woman is still there, the cup still undrunk from. I start to sketch the woman’s body that is now sideways on the couch she is on. Her eyes are closed, but I know she’s not sleeping, at least not yet. I know that beneath those eyelids, two fires are burning. Eyes that will drill into me should my gaze is to meet hers. I reason that it’s because she had a night job before, and lifestyles persist. I tentatively start to draw her hair. They were now all grey, with pure white tendrils here and there that gives her a sparkling appearance. Today, it seems like her whole code is grey. She has around her neck, a necklace of black-grey feathers. I notice that she also have feathers in her hair bun. Every night, she comes to the café wearing exquisite outfits of these kinds. Obviously this shaman style is her favorite. I now move to her hands. They tightly hold on to a handbag of Begonia pink. It’s full to the limit and worn with age. I once saw her taking various cosmetics out of it, but who knows what else would be in there.

I wake. I have dozed as well. The woman is gone. So it must be past six. I look at my laptop’s dark screen. It wouldn’t turn on. I realize it would have consumed itself to death while I was dozing. Probably the sketch wouldn’t have been saved. I lament. It was a good sketch. I pack my bag and leave. Outside, the snow crunch under my shoes. I think about the other students who were by now well asleep in their seats. Youth was a powerful thing. In a way, he’d attended a show, a personal performance by the woman with feathers. A small audience, including himself, had been present to a silent applause. I wondered where she got those feathers. Maybe it wasn’t from a bird. Maybe she was a fallen angel, who tried to grab something too much above her. Now she was bound to the ground, deprived of her youth, punished forever to age. Her eyes held so much dignity, so much grief. Maybe, just maybe, she came to make us realize that time is prone to pass, that drinks, while they may be undrunk, will still get cold. Each day was a bagful of makeup where we apply different tones in each situation, but never realizing who the true audience is.

The moral of the story? Never drink too much caffeine to get up in the middle of the street

#antoniostark #essay