Coffee date

The coffee shop was bustling the morning I first met Emily. It was a rainy Wednesday in February, and as I fought through the crowd of businessmen with their Bluetooth headsets and novice writers camped out with mocha lattes and dreams of the New York Times bestseller list, I saw her behind the counter.

The air was thick with the smell of burnt coffee beans, frothy milk and baked goods, her mousy blonde hair was pulled back into a bun, freckles scattered across her face, dark brown eyes framed by steel-rimmed glasses.

As I approached the counter I knew I wanted to talk to her. I just didn’t know what to say.

“Hi,” she said, smiling.

“What can I get you?”

“I’ll have a…” I stalled. “Latte.”

“Sure thing. Name?”

“Tom,” I said. “And you?”

She glanced down at her badge, then back up at me. “It’s Emily.” “Oh. Right.” I smiled, awkwardly. She laughed. “Don’t worry. Happens all the time. Take a seat, I’ll bring it over.”

I paid for the drink and took a seat, replaying the interaction in my head. A few minutes later, she returned with my coffee. I lifted the cup and noticed a message written beneath my name, neat and deliberate.

Have a great day :)

I hadn’t planned to stay, but I did. When I finished the coffee, I fished a pen out of my bag and added my reply beneath hers.

You too :)

On my way out, I placed the cup on the counter instead of in the bin, the writing turned toward her. I smiled and stepped back out into the rain. For the next few mornings I queued up for coffee again, placed the same order and when I got the cup there were more messages and I always responded in kind.

Same again?

You know how I like it.

Bad morning? (She could tell I was in a bad mood)

I was, coffee will make it better.

This went on for a few days, back and forth, our little messages became the highlight of my day. Finally after a week or so, I plucked up the courage, I bought a refillable mug and wrote my message first.

How about a drink sometime, somewhere other than here?

Can’t right now. Rain check

The next morning I simply wrote.

sure, I can wait.

Over the next weeks and months the messages kept coming. Sometimes happy, sometimes sad. She was studying for her exams at University so I gave her words of encouragement.

Exams suck :( stressed

You got this :)

It became part of my routine, I’d leave early for work just so I made it to the cafe so she could serve me, always nervous that someone else would take my order instead and although we barely even spoke, I felt like I was learning so much about her, and her about me. I felt like I could tell her so much in those little messages, somehow, in those few words, I felt like I knew her better than people I’d worked alongside for years.

There was something about the limited space that meant every word mattered, everything that was written was intentional. No room for inane comments, we both said what we wanted and what we knew the other needed to read.

My boss is an idiot.

Aren’t they all?

I hate it here sometimes.

It won’t be forever.

Is it Friday yet?

Almost!

I started noticing the days she wasn’t there before I even reached the counter. The absence of her handwriting spoke louder than any note she’d ever written. I told myself not to read into it. Exams, shifts, life.

The first morning she came back I didn’t want to be the one to write I miss you. I didn’t know if we were there yet, despite everything we’d never had more than a brief conversation.

Then, the following morning, beneath my name, I saw:

Miss me? I was elated. I did.

Weeks blurred into months without either of us ever really acknowledging it, save for the odd drawing of a pumpkin and then a snowman. The seasons changed outside the café window, scarves appeared, coats grew heavier, the days grew longer and the nights were colder, but inside, everything stayed the same. Same counter. Same quiet anticipation as I waited for my cup to come back.

Somewhere along the way, the coffee stopped being the point.

I didn’t even like coffee all that much. But the café had become a fixed point in my day, something immovable. No matter what waited on the other side of it, meetings, deadlines, the long slow hours of pretending to care, I knew that for a few minutes each morning, there would be a cup with my name on it, and something written just for me.

There were moments when we could have spoken properly. When the café was quiet and there was no one behind me in line. When she handed me the cup and our fingers brushed for half a second too long. When she opened her mouth as if to say something, then thought better of it.

Sometimes I wondered what would happen if I stayed. If I said something out loud instead of writing it down. But the queue would grow, the machine would hiss and steam, and the moment would pass.

One morning, I went in for a coffee as usual and couldn’t see her.

At first, I wasn’t too worried, but as I reached the counter, one of the other baristas looked up at me, then did a double take. “You’re Tom, right?”

“Yes,” I said, suddenly unsure why my name mattered.

He hesitated. “Emily asked me to let you know she won’t be coming back. She said she was sorry she couldn’t tell you herself.” The words sank slowly. “She quit,” he added, gently.

My heart dropped. “Do you know where she’s gone?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. She didn’t say. Can I get you anything?” I stepped back from the counter. “No. Not right now.” My head was spinning. After all this time, she was just… gone? No goodbye. Nothing.

I turned to leave. “How about that drink,” a voice said behind me, “somewhere other than here?” I stopped. Emily stood there, no uniform, no name badge, she was in baggy jeans, a striped jumper and her hair was wild and unkempt.

“I finished uni,” she said. “I qualified. I don’t need the job any more.” She paused. “So,” she said, “how about it?”