2018. Two years ago, I had this conversation with an old online friend. Let us call him Fisher King. Not that there is something special in this talk, but through this, one can relate to some degree as how this man reminisced a lost lover from the past, a sad but poetic description of how that day came out.
It started as this.
“This is pretty good,” pointing to a piece I was writing. I was writing cliché things since then, until now, and he was my editor. “But, dude? Are you a barista or something? You seem to have a thing for coffee.”
Shocked with his question, I grinned and answered, “I just love coffee.”
It is not that I really love coffee, but because I am antilactic, I have no choice but to have a coffee instead.
“Coffee would be nice after my day. It’s just that it reminds me of someone whenever l see a Starbucks place and a tall Americano. It’s funny how the smell of something can ignite a memory,” he said with a slight sigh, heeding his eyes away. “Have you ever sat down with someone you like over a cup? Nothing beats that.”
“Not yet,” I said. “I mean I want a coffee break with someone, but unfortunately she is not into coffee. She loves milk.”
“Milk.” He smirked, “Oh god. Here l go again.”
“Yes, milk,” I replied.
‘“Coffee and milk tea, please,”’ said the couple to me as l waited on them that cool afternoon in December. I was working over the break and just wanted to do something else after my breakup,” he stopped. “My train of thought got cut. Need cigarettes. Stat!”
He took caja of Marlboro red from his pocket, gave me one, and dragged a stick.
“Yay. That, perhaps were us,” I started a lame joke.
A couple of minutes later, he continued, “Certain words trigger something in me. Milk tea, frappauchino. That was her favorite drink after a long day. I imagine she would still be wearing her scrubs from the hospital as she’d sit down, alone and just expound the day. She has a lot of friends, colleagues, acquaintances.”
“Who is she?” I asked.
Instead of answering me, he kept babbling all the adjectives of her, drawing in more descriptions and memories.
“But, today she sat alone for some reason. For that reason, she looked so beautiful as dusk bathe her face. Surreal and almost like a thunderbolt to me. Certain smells always remind me of that. That look in her eyes as she stared out the window. Like she’s getting ready to cry.”
She maybe that dear to him that I could see a melancholia through his eyes, “She.. she is a relative term. She all and not and is and might. She is all Aphrodite and all tempest. My muse and my nightmare. I am not a poet anymore for all her graces. All her charm and loving gaze are away from me.
She. It’s always about she why poets lament forth to all heavens. Just she. No names can ever fully describe the form that haunts us, men.”
I have taken a deep breath and cut his talking, “She. She is always the reason of mighty men’s fall since time long ago. Doesn’t she?”
He again continued, “And yet, here we are. Or, me. To fall and and fall, after we fall. We armour ourselves to the inevitable drop that always insures. We shatter ourselves into that abyss of woe and regret. We risk it! We are so full foolishly fond of it. The promise of joy that can only end most bitterly. Tragically. And as fools’ fool, we would still garb the armour. Risk again for that hope of joy that may come. Or, never.”
After for awhile, a minute, the time had come for us. And as the coffee break ended, another thing was broken again. With coffee and milk, hearts drowned themselves into memories, like a cube of sugar that disappears in hot water.
