Inspiration

COFFEE, SLOW DRIP

Comfort in a World of What-Ifs

“What if we open a coffee shop?” she says.

“What if ? What if we, I don’t know, didn’t ask so many questions?” She smiles and shrugs her shoulders, as if brushing off the weight of the world’s uncertainties.“What if!”

As the night wears on, she dances in circles around our living room, fueled by mugs of wine. What if, what if, what if, stopping her spinning only to repeat those words, staring into my eyes, issuing a formal challenge.

What if we take control of our dream?

The dream she’d played out for me a hundred-thousand-million times as we laid side by side in our dingy first apartment; as we drove down silent suburban streets with soft, hopeful wavelengths wafting through the air; as we drooled over properties and storefronts on Zillow, Trulia, Listings Unlimited, AirBnB — just dreaming, playing, joking.

“But this isn’t a joke,” she says, bringing up her wine-born idea as we stroll downtown. “I know this was my dream, but it’s become ours. I want you to be a part of it — my business and my life,” she adds, stopping us on the sidewalk. “You know, if you want to.”

She takes my hand, pulling me into a thrift store like she pulled me into her life: With exciting energy and a craving for new things, experiences, ideas. We walk through the store; my hands skim big jackets, small teacups, a couple of overstuffed armchairs.

While considering a set of dainty white dinner plates with yellow flowers painted on them, she sketches out everything we’d need: Plates, saucers, cups, mugs, some chairs, coffee tables, an espresso machine or two.

“Think big, dude,” she exclaims, the plates in one hand and two sunflower yellow mugs in the other. “You can’t control the world, but you certainly can control your little corner and what you want to do with it.”

And so I say yes.

She has a gravity that pulls everything around her into a special kind of clarity, one that comes from intense focus and control. Over the next few months, she introduces me to the power of spreadsheets and budgeting; of the gems in the kitchen section of thrift stores; of finding the right real estate agent to make your dream storefront a reality.

I love the way she’s always learning a new language or trade or tool, always diversifying her skillset. She says it’s a kind of defense mechanism—you can’t focus on everything wrong with your life or the manic world if you’re figuring out how to say dirty words in French or perfecting a focaccia.

The day our state-of-the-art espresso machines arrive, she’s zipping with energy. A pot of pink flowers here, the stacks of mugs and cups over there. Slowly, what was once a dream comes into focus.

I’m setting up our armchairs in a cozy nook — one yellow, one pink, one for each of us — when she calls my name and waves me over.

“Watch out, Peet’s, there’s new competition in town,” she says triumphantly while clouds of steam hiss out of the enormous, hulking machine. It’s shooting out espresso shots at warp speed, and yet she’s completely in command. “I’ve got the hang of this — let me show you!”

Step by step, she shows me how to grind the beans, pull the espresso, and steam the milk so it’s piping hot, ready to be used for crafting foam hearts and flowers.

“Okay, I think you’ve got this under control,” she pauses, eyeing me across the bar. “Now brew.”

I’ve always been more of a drip person, a one-cup-at-a-time person. But, galvanized by her confidence, I make my way to her side. She sets up everything for me before stepping back. “You got this, just follow my lead,” she says with a comforting smile.

What she told me runs through my head as I mimic her motions. It’s smooth sailing until I attempt to steam the oat milk (we’re lactose intolerant).

Suddenly there’s steam and water and piping hot milk splattering, bubbling, shooting through the air. The massive espresso machine gripes and groans, sending up more clouds of hot steam and forcing us to take cover.

I’m mortified, drops of hot milk clinging to my face as it flushes red. She claps a hand over her mouth, turning to face me with bangs soaked by oat milk splatter. She brushes the hair from her face and reaches out to wipe some hot embarrassed tears off of my face while chuckling.

“That was...amazing,” she gets out, keeping a belly full of laughter under control. The second a giggle escapes, I start laughing uncontrollably. Suddenly, our phones chime in to our chorus of laughter with identical bings and buzzes.

“Public health alert. All nonessential businesses to shut down immediately.”

“What if we close the shop?” she asks, looking up at me, eyes drained, drifting, dewy with tears.

She heaves herself out of her favorite pink chair to walk in weary circles behind the coffee bar. I follow her. Eight months into business together, the pandemic has slapped around the budget of our coffee shop. Customers are few; worries are many.

“What if we don’t even have a choice? What if we have to?” Her voice breaks — a failure that is hers but isn’t hers is staring her in the face. Our dream has come to a screeching halt.

My heart starts an all too familiar anxious pitter-patter as she puts her face in her hands on the bar, scrunching her shoulders like she does when she’s holding back wracking sobs.

The pitter-patter makes its way to my hands and feet. Gritting my teeth, I start gathering the ground coffee, the soy milk, my old foe the frothing pitcher. As she lowers her elbows and puts her face against the cool bar, I move to stand before the intimidating behemoth that is our espresso machine.

I tentatively begin punching bright silvery buttons, already lost. Scratching my head, I see our old glass drip coffee setup behind a set of polished glasses. Coffee has become our living, but maybe it’s time to go back to basics, back to when it was just a comfort.

She glances up at me as I start making more noise — grabbing decaf beans, our favorite yellow mugs, her favorite kettle — to make her a comforting cup of coffee.

What if we lose control of our dream?

Like she said, her dream became mine. My love for her and the irresistible pull of her passions have always charted the course of our relationship. Our love isn’t a dictatorship, but her dreams are bigger, weightier. She dreams in color, and I love the bright, brilliant world she shows me.

I grind her favorite blend of decaf beans after starting the kettle. As the water heats, I create a powdery dust. The earthy, punchy roast blends with the lavender cleaning spray she uses, smoothing the scents together until the space oozes flowery warmth.

Is this my dream, the coffee shop? Not really. I’ve thought a lot recently about how I feel like I’m in the passenger seat of my

life. I can see where I’m going and I have my own destination in mind, but my Uber driver of destiny clearly has their own ideas.

I set up the filter, set down the ground coffee, and pour the piping hot water over it. She’s looking at me as I make the coffee now, her chin perched on her crossed arms. She’s looking but she’s not watching — her eyes are far away, probably thinking and rethinking and rethinking about where we are.

She can convince me to do anything, which is what I love about her. I wouldn’t have experienced half the things in my life without her leading the way. And she’s not controlling; I go along willingly. She checks in, is comforting, is always the one to ask me questions about how I’m feeling. In fact, she asks before I do.

I finish making the coffee and washing up. Before walking over to her, I add oat milk to our mugs, no sugar. The milk bubbles a bit as it hits the hot coffee, before swirling into the dark richness of the drink, making its tone creamier, balancing out the flavor.

What is my dream? What kind of control do I want? What kind of control do I have? Not the sort of steely mind she’s equipped with — mine is soft, emotional, and definitely doesn’t have a main character mentality.

I grab a spoon and stir the milk and coffee. Swirling together, the brown and white becoming a sort of tan in between, a beautiful in between, one of my favorite colors.

She never really comes to me first about her feelings. It’s actually funny — she’s so open about so many things about herself, but her sentences always lead to emotional dead ends. You have to guess at what she’s really thinking, feeling, and going through. Being at the center of someone’s world is a lot of pressure, and maybe she can’t communicate that pressure.

Maybe she feels like she dragged me into this venture and now it’s failing. Maybe she blames herself for our conditions in this global pandemic. Which is insane, but understandable; there’s no more control in our little corner, at least none of the kind that she can exert.

With a yellow mug in each hand, I walk over to her. As I approach, she blinks a couple times.

“Hey there space cadet, what’re you thinking about?”

The corner of her mouth crawls upwards, but is fought down by the clouds shadowing her face.

“Nothing important,” she sighs. “At least nothing we can do anything about.”

There she goes again. I can feel her emotions receding, the tide of her vulnerability drawing everything close to her.

I shake my head. “No,” I say forcefully, gripping my mug. She looks up at me, surprised. “No,” I add more softly. “Please, tell me. I want to know what goes on in that head of yours.”

I cross the bar, sliding my mug to sit beside hers. Placing my hand on top of hers, I say, “Let me be here for you. Please, tell me.”

Scooching beside her, I place my head in the crook of her neck. She closes her eyes as I start to whisper things to her. Our mugs cuddle each other, their steam spinning upwards, fainter and fainter as the night wears on.

I whisper to her my worries and stresses, my hopes and dreams for us, every bad feeling I’ve had and how she’s lifted me out of some of them — everything, from the obvious to the thoughts and feelings I know she doesn’t know.

I can read her, and I know she can’t read me; that’s why she always asks. But there’s more to her head and heart than what meets my eye. It’s time I lead, take over a bit of control, and comfort her.

Finally, she takes a sip of coffee.

Eventually, we sell the beastly state-of-the-art machine (not because of my personal vendetta, I swear). It was always too big, too bulky, and unnecessarily complicated — no reason to have something take up that much space in our heads and our shop.

As pandemic restrictions ease, coffee flows out of our cafe and into happy customers’ hands. What if we don’t have to worry? Every night after we close, we make two cups of decaf, slowly, together.

Tonight, it’s her turn. I prop my elbows on the counter, watching her nimble hands grind the beans, wash us each a mug, and start making the drip.

Words: Kat Shok

Photos: Liz Mao