Lovers at the Coffee Shop

I try my hand at fiction after reading Emily Henry!

Today, my lover chooses the seat opposite me at the coffee shop, adorning a black and white striped sweater.

“Can I wear the black one if you aren’t?” they hollered while I was in the washroom.

This was an hour ago. I was aghast at the view before me when I stepped out into our bedroom. They were naked (this part was normal) and trying to assemble an outfit from the mountain of clothes that occupied the entire bed (this part was not).

Despite running late, they had decided to sort the clothes pile into categories. This was what it looked like—worn once (so clean), must be worn before sending to laundry (so clean again), smells okay even though it appears worn (so clean too), looks dirty, and also smells awful (so will go for laundry). And then the familiar swoosh of one garment after another being dunked into the laundry bag from one end of the room to the other as if we were on a basketball court.

As I watched this, I stood under the fan and dried myself in my pink bathrobe. I made a mental note for later: understand why people have an urge to deep clean before leaving the house.

101 Coffee Shop Painting, Conrad Haberland, Sattchi Art

Meanwhile, our auto waited downstairs at the T point. The driver had already messaged, “I have arrived,” on the app. But we were naked, and they seemed to desperately want to adorn my sweater. Clearly, there weren’t a lot of other options, so I reluctantly agreed.

Instead, what I wanted to say was... You can take it but don’t sniff it, and tease me about it later, and also don’t drop anything on it, and the last time you borrowed my white sweater, you left an orange stain, and it has not gone off yet.

I said none of it. I was tickled by the thought that they wanted to wear my dirty sweater. In a lot of ways that felt intimate, like sharing the same ice lolly after one of us had licked it nicely. (God damn the saliva, the germs, and the possibility of a throat infection.)

But my partner’s logic was rather simple: they look fantastic in my sweaters, and also the mixed aroma of my sweat and our shared Calvin Klein perfume lent it a different feeling. They said wearing my sweater was an experience.

Somewhere in that moment, I saw their cheeks flush. Naturally, I stepped closer. They signalled a want too. Bad timing, my brain said. But my hands and feet were in sync. They untangled the knot of my bathrobe, and I let out a murmur. They traced their fingers across my shoulder blade, and just like it happens in any rom-com, the temperature in the room rose like it was a hot furnace.

The auto driver was waiting; they reminded me. We went against our raging hormones and postponed the romance. In the next three minutes, we managed to step out of the steamy furnace of our bedroom, wearing MY clothes.

And now, here we are—at the coffee shop.

This place is famous for its pastel blue mugs, which boast a nice belly and fat handle. There is also a matching saucer alongside—things that my aspiring potter lover hopes to make one day too.

Coffee Shop NYC Collage, Chery Holmes, Sattchi Art

My lover’s immaculate in more ways than they know. They place the coffee cup on their right, at the exact distance it will take them to pick it up gently and raise it to their mouth; their laptop rests between their mint-green earpods and the hot chocolate; and they circle the hot chocolate swiftly (like whisky connoisseurs do) before they gulp. They mime a muted moan—it’s a hot chocolate orgasm (I have heard tonnes of them before), one where the warmth of the chocolate drink goes not to their tummy but directly to the head (I think cocoa hits them like caffeine).

They type away on the laptop as if they might never have access to it again. As if a mind-bending idea hit them as soon as the first drop of hot chocolate entered their brain cells. I can see they are trying hard—tapping away their foot incessantly, writing and deleting, opening tab after tab after tab, scrambling through their handwritten notes.

In between, they swirl their hand through their hair several times. They’re supposedly having a good hair day—long, unruly locks fall to their slender shoulders. They take another sip. Put their fingers on the forehead. Bite their lower lip. Their tongue stretched out for that last bitter concoction of hot chocolate.

Today, they have also managed to take the best seat in the cafe—by the windowsill. So occasionally, they turn only to catch their reflection in the partially dirty mirror. Sometimes, our eyes meet in the translucence of the glass pane. They wander off, running their fingers through the parting, unable to decide if it should be on the usual left or turn it high on the right. And then they settle with the usual.

Between all this beauty ahead of me, I see myself typing away, fast and furious, careful not to miss any moment of change, posture, or expression. I must not let this moment go in vain. I smile to myself.

And sometimes, I wonder, this is what affection could be—merely noticing each other at the coffee shop while sipping hot chocolate and wearing each other’s fragrance.