Satire Series: Coffee Concerns

[vc_row][vc_column][title type="subtitle-h6"]Ryan Mulrooney[/title][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column width="11/12"][vc_column_text]I knew exactly what I wasn’t going to tell her at our coffee date: “You don’t have to tell me about yourself, I already Facebook stalked you.” For once, I was going on a date that my mother didn’t organize - no more playdates. There was no technological exchange about our casual need of caffeine. And no, my date wasn’t just using me to coax a cup of java for free. Let her get a venti, extra shot, hold the whip. Perhaps the more caffeine we would consume the better the date would go. If only she would’ve shown up to find out. Let me set the scene. That morning, I stood in front of my mirror, starring back at my jittery self. Clichés that often go along with first dates were starting to overcome me. Was my throat getting dry? Was I starting to sweat? Had I completely picked the wrong outfit and she that would inevitably lead to the two of us never going on another date and getting married and having kids? God, is having a love life like a Nicholas Sparks book really too much to ask? I stepped onto the street and immediately found it starting to sprinkle. Perfect, this was going to ruin our first date story. The coffee shop was going to be a perfect setting, everything would taste delicious and give us a morning pick me up, but the weather would be dreary. Fine. It would be fine. I took a deep breath. Perhaps walking in the rain would be just romantic as it was in the cinema. As long as it didn’t wash out the smell of my cologne. I put it on especially for her. Who knows if she was going to notice, but I walked with more pep in my step. I at least felt like one of those men in the cologne commercials, whispering “eau de parfum” over hypnotic music that just seemed hyperbolic. Coffee was too foolproof, or at least that’s what I told myself as I stepped into the shop. Well, unless I managed to spill its contents onto my shirt. And the more I thought about it, the more I was probably going to shake the coffee cup in my hand. It was her favorite place to treat herself. How did I know? It was my regular stop as well. You see, I would sit in one of the oversized chairs, midway through one of the over-rated magazines and the usual coffee shop indie song when she would enter. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. That was her routine. She would glance at her watch as she stood in line, along with stealing a few peaks at the pastry display. They were as sweet as she was. She would give her coffee order with a smile that was completely genuine, with just the right amount of shyness. The barista would write on her cup in a faux-artistic way, and my date would play the waiting game. That’s when I could steal the most glances at her. Her hair matched the color of her latte; her clothes with the simplest of elegance; her eyes the lightest of blues, used to commandeer every sweet statement. She was literally Nicholas Sparks material. My chances were looking good. I stood off to the side, slowly panning across the coffee shop as if I was curating a romantic movie clip. She was nowhere to be found. She’s just a minute or two behind, I told myself. Everyone can be a bit slow in the morning. One minute passed; five minutes passed; ten minutes passed. I found myself glancing at my watch even more than she did when she had to wait extra long for her coffee. I stepped into line, hoping that she would secretly follow in behind me from the door. But she didn’t. I slowly took my drink from the counter, making sure that I didn’t grin too broadly at the barista, no matter how fetching the employee looked in her work-required ball cap. Slowly turning, I still didn’t catch a glimpse of my date near the pastry display. So, trying to keep my mind numb, I took a sip of my coffee. My strides towards the table near the window were as elongated as my wait for her. Maybe I would intercept her along the way. I didn’t. One sip. Nothing. Two sips. Nothing. The outcome of the third seemed too inevitable. So I set my coffee down just as she did with my feelings: slowly and then all at once. Instead of this being a Nicholas Sparks story, it was turning into The Fault in Our Stars - and I was the one that was dying. I went back in forth staring at the table and then out of the window. At this point, I knew she wasn’t coming. I just couldn’t understand why. I had done everything right. When I got up the courage to ask her one of the days when her order was taking too long, we smiled that simple smile that only admirers could manufacture; we exchanged small talk with just enough devotion to foster another date; we even managed to coincidentally order the same drink. What was at fault? Perhaps I should’ve had my mom set up this one too. As I sat at the table alone, I noticed everyone passing by on the cement runway. Each of them had their mountain to face. No amount of coffee would be able to make that journey easier. As much as I wanted it to be true, I had just found out otherwise. I wasn’t reaching for my eco-friendly cup again. Because unlike the cup, my emotions couldn’t be recycled. This one girl managed to think that everything was okay, that I would get over it, that I would move on. But I didn’t. I reached for my cup. Managing as much gusto has I could, I took a drink. And I swallowed hard. Because that’s what one must do in this world, no matter how strong the coffee is. Honestly, perhaps the only girl a man needs is his mom.