Soil and Hazelnuts

Tap. The plastic cup rolled. I knocked it with my wrist. Coffee flooded the table. It reached the paper in front of me. The page absorbed the dark liquid. I looked at the counter. The barista stopped wiping a mug and shook her head. I stood up and walked to her. “Hi, I need some paper towels,” I said. “I bet you do.” She tore a handful of towels from a dispenser and handed them to me. “Do you want a new coffee?” she asked. “Yes, please. In a porcelain mug and with a coaster this time.” The bell by the door rang. She smiled at me. “I will bring it to your table.” She grabbed the portafilter and turned towards the espresso machine. The grinder whirred. “Thank you,” I said and turned around. A man was at my table. I walked back. He had a plastic coffee cup in his hand. Not mine. Mine rested on the soaked paper. “Excuse me,” I said. He didn’t move. “Sir, I sit at this table.” I dropped the paper towels on the stain and wiped the coffee. Towels and my blank paper turned into wet pulp. I put it into the empty coffee cup and left it at the edge of the table. Then I sat down. “Sir,” I said again. “I’m kind of busy here.” I grabbed my pen. Tacky. “Writing a letter, I know,” he said. “Yes, a letter. See. I don’t want to be rude, but there are other, vacant tables.” The barista came with my coffee. She put it on the table and took the plastic cup with the towels away. “Be careful,” she said. She turned around as the bell rang. The man sitting at my table didn’t move. I looked at the door over his shoulder. Two women in raincoats. Soaked. One waved at me. I’d seen her at the cemetery. I raised my hand and nodded. “Who are you writing to?” the man asked. “A friend. I would rather not talk about it.” I leaned under the table and took another piece of paper out of my messenger bag. “A girlfriend?” He put his cup on the edge of the table. “I really don’t want to talk about it.” “Why can’t you say it in person?” I put the paper in front of me, placed the pen across the page, and reached for the coffee mug. “Is this a love letter?” I lifted the mug to my face. The smell of soil and hazelnuts. I took a sip. The heat spread over my lower lip and tongue. Bitter. Tangy. “Do you think she loves you?” I gripped the handle harder. My hand shook. Hot coffee dripped down my fingers. I put the mug on the coaster. “Sit somewhere else,” I said. Wiped the hand on my trousers. The man stared at me. He grabbed his plastic cup. Took the lid off. Turned the cup upside down. “Why a letter? Why can’t you send an email or a text message?” I closed my eyes. Pressed a hand to my temple. “Who sends letters in 2026?” I covered my eyes with my palms. Creak. I opened my eyes. The man flexed the rim of the plastic lid. Creak. “If you want to sit here, I’ll go to a different table,” I said. “Stay, you have a letter to write,” he said while popping the lid back onto his cup. “No, I have to go anyway.” I took my pen and paper, leaned under the table, and stowed them into my bag. The bell rang. I closed the bag and sat in my chair. The man was gone. I took a sip of my coffee. Closed my eyes. The grinder whirred.