Week Thirty-Six: Coffee and Pie

IMG_8345.jpgDo you prefer a cloudy, rainy day? Yes, me too. Let’s have another cup of tea. Oh, wait. You have a whiskey. That’s good too. Let’s just sit here in this café and not talk. Let’s read the books – all of them – on that shelf by the door. I think I see a paperback with a sunset on it, a horse rearing, something dusty. We don’t have anywhere to be. Do you like pie? I don’t think there is really anything better in the universe than cherry pie and coffee. Maybe peach pie. Berry pie is up there, but apple only if it is a last resort, I go with fruit pies. Chocolate tastes better in cake. In cookies. In pure bars of dark, bitter shards of chocolate. So, yes, let’s get some pie. You might prefer a more solid choice for your base. You are drinking another whiskey.  I want something sweet.  The older man hasn’t turned a page in his newspaper for ten minutes. But, why hurry>? It’s Sunday afternoon.  The TV is too quiet to hear. Thank goodness. The pie is warm. I switch to coffee when it arrives and watch the stream of raindrops, merging, pooling and then as gravity takes them, plunging.. It’s a soft patter from here. Almost makes you a little sleepy. If you didn’t have so far to drive. If you weren’t going to have to take over from here. It’s fine. I like driving as the sun sets. We are always travelling west. Someday, maybe I will drive into a sunrise instead. Florida, I hear is good for those sunrises. We just face the wrong way here. We look to the nightfall. Doesn’t mean we don’t like our eggs over easy. We’ve stopped here before. I’ll keep picking you up. I know you try. This mistakes. Well, someone needs to forgive you.  I’ll come pick you up on Sunday. On a Tuesday night. Tomorrow morning. I will. I think of you. This plate is sticky, messy. Crumbs and no sign of the pie. Red streaks. A fork askew. I will. I’ll take you home. I will leave you to live as you choose. On you own. Not answering the phone. Platitudes on weekdays. The truth on weekends. I’ll pick you up. The weather doesn’t show any sign of letting up. I think our waiter is going home. So, I pay. It’s darker now, the afternoon is gone. New man in the back, the newspapers thrown out in the trash. We should go. I’ll drive you home. I’ll wish you could stop. I will prefer the cloudy days. They remind me of you.

This piece is part of the #52essays2017 challenge where I will share one essay a week in 2017. To learn more about this challenge or to participate, check out writer Vanessa Martir’s website and post about it.

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