It was an innocent suggestion, or so I imagine. There are more birds. There is shade. There is the comfort of years spent in those chairs, with coffee, argument, dissertations composed, walls of reason built and destroyed. There is comfort in history. And I have been stealing that history. Or at least writing a chapter of absence into that coffee place's history. It is time to return.
Why not? I have not considered what made my decision to refrain necessary for several months.
Twice now I have been back, and it is like visiting the scene of a crime. One which I have committed, no less.
There is at first the anxiety. A realization of where the things of life might have gone very differently, should I not have been caught in the act of such ... suchness (and if you know my particular recent story and the importance of coffee place within it, you will understand the suchness, and if you don't, you can always ask me, but I feel an obligation not to write it down here).
Following is the paranoia. The watching of each deep blue car that pulls into the lot. As though expecting the detective to show at any moment, again, to formally charge me with the arrogance of loves long deceased. It is true: there is no statute limiting the prosecution of foolish love. I look for crevices into which I might shrink, should my presence be noted.
Then there is the reassurance of friends. Your crimes are forgotten. You cannot ask yourself to live this way.
But I was asking nothing. I simply did not want to return. I never barred the establishment, only expressed a preference to take our business elsewhere, if it were agreeable. I did not know this was making waves.
Indeed. Indeed it was, young Alan.
But I am not so young as I let on. These histories are now older than I, and they drag my heart with them.
Careful how you use that word, "heart." It lends itself to overuse and unbecoming hyperbole.
Would you prefer "soul?"
Even less.
Then I am at a loss. It is my very self to which I refer, which is entangled in the mass of brokenness I have begun to resemble and at the same time to despise.
You have always wrestled, Alan.
Then perhaps you ought call me Jacob.
I said nothing of Angels, Alan. And we can't very well call you Jacob Collier. Think of the head your initials will give you. Each lost love will be a martyrdom all its own.
That was not my intent.
Yes, but when you wear a name long enough, it alters your person. Don't you think?
And at this point I stare off at another car, this time not even blue, but I am convinced that it is her driving, and say nothing. I know, despite myself, that it is not.
Finally, there is the departure. No dramatic appearances, nor accusations, came to pass. It was an ordinary coffee. And perhaps this is more upsetting than any of the possibilities we have been imagining.
We no longer yearn for those things past, but they remain with us. They teach us to love those who cannot hurt us. And we wish that such lessons would soon unlearn themselves.
Years having past in those wooden chairs, only a few months away and now they've been replaced with comfortable black metal ones. Changes in such an absence always seem greater than those made in our presence, no matter how drastic or not.
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