Coffee II
By: Marika Bianca
Tags: Serial Fiction, Relationships, Love, Fiction, Short Story

“Coffee. Tomorrow. You know the place. 2pm”

She held her breath as she stared at the text, dumbstruck.

Then, like a dark wave, it came crashing down on her — overwhelmed, she dropped the phone on the sofa beside her and burst into tears, bringing her hands to her face.

So much history.

It had been so long since she’d seen him — and she’d been sure she never would again. Getting her wish was almost too much.

Almost.

It’s him— she thought.

She would finally see him — after so much time.

He was everything.

Nothing else mattered.

“fuck…fuck…” she exclaimed aloud, fanning her eyes and taking deep breaths in a futile effort to stop the tears — she didn’t need to be puffy and bloodshot tomorrow.

Tomorrow…it’s a dream, she thought.

She held her breath again as she read it for the umpteenth time:

“Coffee. Tomorrow. You know the place. 2pm”

She let out a heavy sigh.

She knew the place.

It was the last place they’d seen each other in the flesh. The last place they kissed. The last place she touched him, smelled him — tasted him. A cute little indie coffee house in her favourite neighbourhood — all reclaimed wood and metal inside and, of course, the best coffee. It had been such a casual meeting — just grabbing a coffee on a Sunday morning — Earl Grey for her, because she’d had a truly wretched cold.

He kissed her anyway.

He wrapped his arms around her, giving her a squeeze — flashed a big smile and kissed her on the street out front before the exchange of I love you’s and she got in her car and drove away.

She had no idea that would be the last time she saw him.

The last kiss.

And the significance of tomorrow being Sunday, didn’t escape her.

She felt the tears welling up again.

“Fuck,” she muttered through broken breath.

She went to the kitchen for ice cubes then headed back to the sofa to put her head back and de-puff. She put the music up — Grizfolk’s, Troublemaker.

I should be so lucky — she thought. That set her smiling again.

Her thoughts shifted to the practical demands of tomorrow — like clothes.

She mentally went through her wardrobe, quickly dismissing the fleeting thought of picking up something new — no time — and settled on an outfit she’d feel confident in: a pair of distressed jeans that flared at the bottom and made her ass look fantastic, a semi-sheer, green off-shoulder blouse with embroidered flowers on the front that made her eyes sing and showed some skin — and her favourite wedge-heeled boots.

Lipstick to be determined.

She’d need to shower, dry her hair — using the round brush, which meant an extra 30 minutes — remember to use mousse to hold the wave, then makeup — not too much, finally get dressed — leaving enough time to drive into the city, find parking and arrive at least a half hour early so she’d be there first.

She wanted to see him before he saw her.

She headed upstairs — a good sleep was in order if she wanted to look rested.

Still smiling, she crawled into bed.

She lay on her side and peeked at the text under the blanket one more time — heart racing — thinking about tomorrow.

Why now?

Why did he finally want to see her after refusing?— had he accepted what she’d written or did he have questions? Thinking back on the letter, she was sure she’d said too much — why else would he have been silent for so long? — or was it enough? Would she have to say it all again, to his face? Oh, God — she thought — don’t cry tomorrow.

It doesn’t matter, she thought.

The only thing that mattered was she would finally set eyes on him again. Whatever his motivations were—friend or foe — she would see him. A tremor shot through her body as she thought about what it would be like to touch him. Her finger lightly traced over the text. The thought sent her blissfully drifting.

There was a stirring on the other side of the bed.

She shut her eyes tightly.

He threw his arm roughly around her, running his hand up her thigh before settling on her hip, giving her a shake.

Oh, God — not now, she thought.

She played dead. He jostled her a bit. She let out a deep exhale in feigned sleep. He relented, leaving his arm across her.

His arm felt heavy.

She kept her eyes shut and clasped the phone tightly, lost in thought.

Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.