Coffee

"Not much, just stopping by for a coffee," Gérard says.

"I can see that. You're really treating yourself, aren't you!"

Gérard smiles. He's known Ellis for some time now; four years, at least. Always cheerful, his eyes have a jocular glint in them that shine like two blue tidepools. A vivacious storyteller, Ellis is the perfect company for early morning coffee. Gérard needn't say a word.

"Have you heard about the new restaurant they're opening downtown," he asks, pausing briefly, anxiously waiting Gérard's head shake. "Well, it's all over the papers. They're getting Cuccini as the head chef, giving him full control over the menu." Gérard reclines slightly in his chair. He takes a sip of his chilled coffee and tries to listen to his friend over the radio. Leonard Cohen is playing. The door swings open and the bell rattles. It lets out a strangled chirp as it collides with the glass. From behind Ellis, Gérard watches Duncan enter the cafe and spot their table.

"Look at you two goons. Up with the sun," Duncan says, clapping his hand down on Ellis' shoulder.

"I wish you would've let us know you were coming," Ellis says, "we would've gone next door."

"Next door," Duncan asks confusedly, "I wouldn't be caught dead next door."

"Exactly," Ellis says laughing.

They begin to banter and exchange tales of the night prior; of battle and valor, swollen conquest. Gerard excuses himself to have a cigarette. Outside the city is slowly getting to its feet. Couples walk arm in arm, others push carriages. Leaning against the wall he wonders how the day might unfold. There is a poster stapled to the wall which says there will be music in the park later. Sometime before then he will need to eat. He wants something hot but the temperature is already rising, boiling away his appetite. Something cold then, maybe a sandwich. His phone buzzes in his pocket. A friend tries to entice him to take a drive up north. He is accosted by memories of his first trip there, with Maria. It was autumn then, and the weather was heavenly. They spent the weekend in a small cabin with a black, potbelly furnace and antique looking furniture. There was a forest outside which led to a small river and a lake. One night they'd had too much wine and fallen asleep with their clothes on, before the sun had even set. He had woken up confused and disoriented, wondering if they'd slept together. Neither of them remembered a thing, of course, their memories swallowed up by empty glasses.

His heart felt heavy and full now, drunk on remembering. Memories are always filling our glasses; especially those of forgetting.