Over Coffee and Chocolate Cake
T
Audrey Silalahi
oday, coffee and bagels will be painful. I’ve circled the block twice since arriving, but my mind keeps on wandering back and forth between the smell of freshly baked bagels and overpriced coffee. I dread the thought of having to face you again. I’m slowing down my steps, reloading emails on my phone, opening then closing my journal, making sure there isn’t anything else I could be doing instead of hovering awkwardly in front of the clear glass door of this cafe. I wonder, if I walk in there and remind you that you used to tell me that we could plant coffee beans in the middle of Jakarta, will you remember? Or, if I bring up the time you drove us 45 minutes to our favorite bagel place in South Jakarta that was closing only for us to miss its last order, will you even let me finish? I’ve finally built up the courage to walk in. I tug on the scarf around my neck. The bell hits the door signaling my arrival but your head’s still looking down, probably way too focused reading something on WhatsApp to notice that I’m here, walking past you and ordering my coffee. I stand close to the window as I wait for my order, taking my time to really look at you from the short distance between us. I expected you to look aged, and you do. Your usual black polo shirt is replaced with a brown button up, those jeans that you used to spend way too much money on are now black slacks and your hair, while still in a buzzcut precision, have gone a little bit gray. I know what you’re having, too — iced passion fruit tea
21
