The Coffee Pub

Originally published: 2004

Sitting undisturbed and mindless to my surroundings, I was lulled into a sense of security by the smell of rich, pure Colombian coffee. The smell of coffee invades my nostrils like the cold bitter air does on a winter morning. I sit silently looking over my notes. I like to think of myself as an aspiring author. I come to the coffee pub to escape the cluttered and hectic confines of my own home. I've been working on a project that describes the study of human interaction, it's quite intriguing if I may say so myself. Only when the waitress lays my piece of hazelnut cake on the table am I drawn out of my sense of security, I thank her and she leaves.

 I take the next few moments to absorb my surroundings. The building has a warm meticulous feeling to it. There's a palm tree in the east corner, a tall oak grandfather clock by the front doors with evidence of having been cleaned just a few hours beforehand, there's a young couple sitting across the aisle, three seats away and there's an elderly couple sitting directly to the right in the booth beside me. There are three staff members working - one male and two females - dressed in the same outfit. A grayish-black polo with black dress pants and black dress shoes. It gives them the appearance that they are dedicated fully and wholeheartedly to their task of pleasing customers. This coffee pub seems friendly and family oriented but there are no children or families to be seen. The majority of people I see inside the wonderful walls of this coffee pub appear to consist mainly of married couples, girlfriend/boyfriend couples and single people with different reasons for spending time alone at a coffee pub.

 Putting my notes aside I glance up in time to see the young couple arguing. The young man is wearing a red polo, blue jeans and black runners. He's talking to who I assume is his girlfriend in a calm tone, I can't hear what he says but I assume it's the beginning words of a more heated argument, yet to come. The woman I assumed to be his girlfriend is wearing a black vest over a white turtle neck sweater, blue jeans and black dress shoes. She appears to be shaking, I assume with anger. She's talking using her hands now and begins to point accusingly in his face. I almost wish I could hear what they're saying. It's none of my business, but the emotion she is putting into the hand movements piques my curiosity to the point of not being able to look away. I notice the young man look over at me with a puzzled look on his face, I turn away hoping he didn't notice me staring.

  I blame the burning curiosity on aging, the older I get the more interested in other peoples business I become. It may be that I find my life dull and boring when in actual fact I do more than my fair share of exciting activities. I play squash on Sundays. I'm part of the local book club that meets at various restaurants around town. It hits me like a tonne of bricks. When I'm not with the book club or playing squash I spend my time at the coffee pub. It's become like a second home to me. I find it unbearable to write at home and often times I'm unable to write at the coffee pub because exciting drama is a consistent distraction.

 Looking back at the young couple I notice that he has his hands on hers. They seem to be talking in a more orderly fashion now. It doesn't surprise me. Young couples often get into quarrels and reconcile a short time after. I've seen it on numerous occasions; the young man is a little too friendly towards another female, jealously takes over and she confronts him. I've seen it from the male’s perspective as well. The woman refuses to go to a basketball game, one he even went so far as to plan as a surprise for her. She doesn't want to go because she would rather go out to a fancy dinner and drink champagne. He refuses to pass off the tickets. He goes to the game and returns home late and intoxicated after spending a few hours after the game, out with friends. She gets upset, he spends the night on the couch and in the morning it's as if it had never happened. It's the small quarrels in life that make relationships interesting.

 I find a coffee pub is similar to a bomb shelter. Why? It's simple really, when you're in a coffee pub it's like the only things that matter are inside the four walls that surround you. There's no outside drama, problems or worries. The drama that's going on inside, worrying about whether or not you will finish enough pages of your novel, meeting with a friend for a cup of java or a small meal to catch up and discuss how you've both been; these are the things that truly matter. I admit I don't live a stressful life and it's because I choose not too. I have friends who are so stressed they are barely themselves. Once they enter the confines of a coffee pub the change is drastic. It's like the whole world has been lifted off their shoulders. I find myself pitying them more than anything these days. I can't help but feel that I'm part of the problem; it's because of everybody that they work so hard and are so stressed. They

strive to be great at what they do so that in the future they can work for us. They're the chartered accountants, business owners, bank managers, restaurant owners, teachers and many more professional trades of the future. They're all going to be people we rely on, heavily.

 There's one special lady in particular. Her name is Jacqueline. She's a feisty mild-mannered young lady in her second year of university for accounting. It saddens me when I look back on how strong our relationship once was. I barely see or hear from her, these days. She's one of those people who will always hold a special place in my heart and that place is empty when the absence in interaction becomes too extended. She's tall and thin, her long blond hair flows with the color of the sun, her eyes, are as green as emeralds. She's a true definition of beauty when it comes right down to it. Her personality is the epitome of what one would look for when they want to be with someone who understands them and will listen to their problems.

 Drawn out of deep thought by a commotion by the front doors, I glance over in time to see a young woman entering. She's a local, that's for sure. There's something about her, something about her appearance that makes me wonder where I've seen her before and then it hits me, she attended one of my conferences on human interaction at the local university. If I remember correctly, her name is Sarah. She's quite different from Jacqueline in many ways. Her personality is a strong one, she doesn't back down from a fight and I believe wholeheartedly that she loves to spite people just for arguments sake. She's slightly shorter then myself - I guess around 5 foot 8 - with long brown hair and blue eyes. She's got sweats and runners on with a waist length pea coat; her hair is in a rough pony tail. It appears as if she had been working out and got the urge to abandon fitness training to relax and enjoy a nice cup of warming coffee.

 Noticing Sarah, the male employee steps away from the tart he was eating in order to serve her. She stands for a few moments looking over the menu. She orders a cappuccino and a piece of hazelnut cake; it appears we have a similar taste for great cake. The young man rushes off towards the preparation station. He brings her cappuccino and places it on the counter, she pays and he hands her a number card and notifies her that one of his co-workers will bring over her slice of cake. She nods and takes her cappuccino. Looking back at my piece of half-eaten cake, I start

ponder questions. What if she recognizes me? Am I in the mood for conversation? I don't have answers to these questions. I've been sitting at this same booth with my notes spread out for the past three hours, all alone. Perhaps some company wouldn't be half-bad. Then comes the hopeful feeling that she will indeed notice me and approach me. Perhaps she will notice me but won't approach me at all. Should I approach her? Don't be foolish! I don't know her well enough to approach her.

There's a feeling of confusion stirring in the pit of my stomach. For the first time tonight, I have no clue about my current situation. Perhaps I should ignore the feeling, finish my cake and get back to work. But as she walks I can smell her perfume, it stirs more feelings inside of me. There's a burning desire now, a desire to go and speak with her. I believe it's the perfume that makes me want to get closer to her; I've always had a weakness for women wearing nice perfume. However, it's not always the expensive perfume that I find to be attractive, it's often times the not as expensive perfume that women wear when they just want to slap something nice smelling on, before going out.

 Pushing the burning desire aside, I notice that she has chosen a seat by the window. The cold air outside combined with the heat inside has made the window quite steamed up and it's almost impossible to see outside; it only adds more to the mysterious feeling of the coffee pub. One of the female workers walks past with Sarah's cake and the smell of hazelnut catches my nostrils like a fish hook. The smell of the fresh cake causes me to glance down at my hardening, three hour old cake.

I'm sold; I get up from my booth and walk to the counter. The same girl who served me when I first entered the coffee pub is behind the counter, again. She takes my order with a smile, I pay and before I can walk away she begins to speak. She asks me if I'm a doctor or a newspaper writer, I let her know that I'm not. It would take far long to explain my job to her so I give her the truncated version. I tell her I'm an author and I've been working on my latest piece about human interaction among couples and relationships. Another smile comes across her face. I can't tell if she's genuinely interested or she's smiling because she's paid to. Either way, it doesn't really matter. I thank her and drop the seventy five cents I got back from my five, into the tip cup. She smiles again.

 As I'm walking back to my table I can't help but glance at Sarah. She looks so graceful taking a sip of her cappuccino, taking care not to burn her lips and tongue.

She puts her cappuccino back on the table and before I can look away, she makes eye contact with me. She smiles and reveals those perfectly straight pearly whites - it's as if someone else has taken control of my body - I smile back and wave with my free hand. I take a seat at the table and I tremble slightly. What's wrong with me?

I've begun to act like a youngster. I try to control the shaking in my hands but to no avail. I look up and glance back at Sarah, she hasn't moved. Perhaps we just shared a friendly greeting, nothing more, nothing less.

 She pulls a book out of her jacket pocket. I can't see what it is, but it's fairly thick with a grayish-blue cover. She becomes absorbed in her book and I'm sure that she has pushed our greeting out of her mind as she absorbs the text from the pages.

 I go back to examining my notes, I've got a lot of work to do and I'm nowhere near being close to done. I'm not worried though; the deadline is still three weeks away. March 31 is when I meet next with my publisher. I'm startled by who I assume to be the female worker with the cake. I don't look up but I thank her regardless. I'm surprised when someone takes the seat across from me in my booth; I look up just as Sarah finishes putting her things into the corner. It appears I was wrong about our greeting, or was I? Her perfume hits me like a tonne of bricks. I'm lulled into a sense of warmth and security, the smell is irresistible and I can't control myself. I'm breathing through my nose but not hard enough to attract attention. It smells like a midsummer morning; fresh flowers and morning mist intertwined to produce a most magnificent aroma.

 After absorbing her perfume, our eyes meet. She's smiling again and her face is outlined; she's beautiful. Her eyes are bright blue comparable only to the beauty of the roaring ocean - I personally think it adds to her feisty personality - she has the cutest dimples and the cutest little button nose. We sit in silence for a few moments. Both of us assessing the situation; my piece of cakes comes and there's a brief moment of no awkwardness. The feeling of no self-control is upon me once more. I smile without warning and begin to speak. We converse for close to an hour. She tells me how much she loves my work; I thank her graciously and we move on to other matters. She gives me feedback on my work and even offers advice. It's helpful and I make note of it. Then age comes up, the question no man likes to ask a woman. But I'm at an advantage; she's asked me my age. I let her know I'm only

twenty-four and she's astonished that I'm only a year her senior. She smiles again, but that smiles erased when she looks at her watch. It must be around eight-thirty. She appears to become flustered and packs her books back into her bag. She apologizes for the sudden commotion and apologizes for leaving in such a scene, but she's late for an appointment with her professor. I say my good-byes, thank her for the company and as fast as she came, she's gone.

 It catches me by surprise, I'm sad. I'm sad that she left, I'm sad that our time together was so short, I'm sad that I can no longer smell her beautiful perfume. And I'm angry, angry because I didn't ask her to meet me again or even think about getting her phone number. It's an odd feeling. I feel anxious, I feel as if I need to do something; I want to do something. But what? Do I go to the university and see if I can find her? Surely, not. I've got to think about it logically, even hypothetically. I don't believe in fate, or at least I didn't. But what if it's real? What if there is a plan for every single one of us and our path is determined by the actions we make in life. Does a person who is kind and generous have better lives then those of whom are not? It's a question that nobody can answer. It's a question that gets you thinking; thinking about whether or not there is a plan for you. And if there is, is it a good plan? Are you a good person? Do you deserve good things to happen to you? These are all questions that cross your mind when you're questioning the very essence of your existence. But enough! I push the thoughts out of my mind and convince myself that we will meet again.

 Again I've forgotten about my cake and its gone stale. I sit at my table taking notes about the social interaction between myself and Sarah. Not what we talked about or how beautiful she was, but about how we interacted. The movements, the expressions the connection between us. It was scientifically fascinating, and I had to make notes of it. It's as if I did an experiment without even meaning to. Then there's another commotion in the booth next to me, it startles me slightly. The elderly couple is getting ready to leave.

 It's a beautiful thing, the bond between two people who have been married for longer than I've been alive. The love they share is unbreakable; they've been through so much together. It spans two, maybe three generations: children, grand-children, even great grand-children, in some cases. They care for each other so

much. While helping his wife slip her raincoat on, he whispers in her ear that she's beautiful. She smiles and gives him a kiss on the cheek. They're family and nothing can get in the way of that. It's family that makes living life worthwhile. It's family who's there for you during thick and thin, when you need people to talk to or people to be with, it's family that comes through for you.

 The couple exit and I'm left alone in the building, aside from the employees that is. It's around nine o'clock and they're closing in an hour. I start to feel rushed. I have no reason to be, but with a time limit I always feel rushed. I figure it's about time for me to leave, so I begin to pack up my things. I didn't bring much with me. The usual, really: my long black worn with age pea coat, my brown wearing leather laptop bag (I've never had a need for a laptop, I prefer to write my work out by hand, but I just love the easy access and storage that a laptop bag offers) and my copy of Saturday, which I didn't pick up at all tonight. As I'm packing up my papers, there's something on the other side of the table, something different. Something doesn't fit, then I notice it, there's a piece of paper. This piece of paper is too big to be one of my notes; it's too worn as well. A burning curiosity overwhelms me, but I hesitate. The piece of paper, whatever it may be, is not mine, and the only person who could've left it without me noticing is Sarah. Perhaps she left it and meant to tell me, but in her sudden departure forgot to mention it. Regardless, it must be read. I take the piece of paper and before reading it I think about what it could be. A simple note, a receipt, a recipe; all of which are incorrect assumptions. I turn it over and a feeling of happiness spreads throughout my whole body, it feels as if I've awoken on Christmas morning to find that new set of parchment and quills I asked for. The paper that didn't belong contains seven digits of joy. It's Sarah's phone number. I can't believe it. I was completely wrong about everything. I assumed that Sarah walking into the Coffee Pub was a coincidence, that our interaction was merely friendly, but it wasn't, everything that happened tonight happened for a reason. That reason is yet to be known. The mystery lies with a phone call to a special lady, that special lady is Sarah.

 It may seem like an ordinary visit, but a visit to a coffee pub is never ordinary. The atmosphere has the ability to change a person; it has the ability to remove the worries of the world and open your mind, to things you didn't think possible; it's a place where relationships start and where relationships end. It is a place of mystery,

a place of marvel and it is unmatched by any other place. Things happen here, and they happen for a reason. The bond between two people is sacred and should be treated as such. When two people are together and happy there is no stronger connection then the one between them. Love is not something that should be toyed with and being faithful is important. But then who am I to preach? I'm young; I've got many things to learn and many things to experience. But what I can tell you is that a coffee pub is not an ordinary place, and many great things can be accomplished within their walls.

 I come here for many reasons: to work, to think, to eat and even the occasional meeting with a friend or colleague. But everything that I do here is just the daily events of time spent at a coffee pub and I'm sure others have experienced days like mine.

 As for Sarah, we'll meet again. I have her number and a desire to call her. There was chemistry between us and I'm willing to give it a try, if she is. Perhaps we can meet for a cup of coffee or a piece of hazelnut cake, at a different Coffee Pub, next time.