I have a date with destiny.
We’re going to a coffee shop down the block with mismatched chairs and handmade, ceramic mugs. The kind of place that feels like a hug; we could both use one.
We’ll meet at the white garden bench around the corner, in front of the blooming window boxes that are packed with flowers under the striped, scalloped awning.
The box is comprised of daffodils, cyclamen, poppies, sage, hyacinths, lavender, violets, and roses. Dicentra is planted around the box, and two evergreen trees are visible in the distance. The door behind the bench will look inviting—an escape from every prospect of the impending afternoon—but we’re headed somewhere else.
Such a picturesque scene for such a perturbing day.
The walk to the cafe will be a little tense, our expansive, embarrassing past dangling in the space between our fingertips as we traipse through the traffic, trembling yet tactless.
Our footsteps will synchronize, but I’ll play it off with an aloof attitude, tripping over my apathetic facade as I un-harmonize our ambles.
Climatically, we’ll materialize at the cafe’s entrance. Maybe we’ll grab for the cafe’s door at the same time, our egos butting heads at the golden, rustic handle. After our sweet sway around the hinges, every looming, nameless unfamiliarity will fade into the background music; most likely, it’s a Spotify playlist with “coffeehouse” thrown somewhere into the title. There won’t be complaints from either of us, though. I’ll be on a date with destiny; all clichés will be lost on us.
I’ll order a hazelnut, oat milk latte, iced because of course. I don’t pay attention to her order; the trepidation will claim my once-intrepid convictions.
We’ll sit—the cozy character of the room will almost thicken the tension that rests on the ornate, potted plant at the center of our rickety, wooden table.
Once every conceivable nicety of conversation is used up, once our proems have concluded, once the prelude of flirtatious banter has reached its breaking point, the ice will shatter.
And my fate will unfold.
Questions ooze out of me at an uncontrolled rate, spilling and staining the afternoon like the coffee in the gingham mug that I’m holding.
Does this year get better? Do I get into college? Do I get a decent job? Am I surviving? Am I happy?
Silence will ensue.
Am I happy?
I’m afraid I’ve come on too strong, which I thought might happen. I guess destiny’s not the only one who can predict the future.
She’ll take a breath and walk me through it all.
She’s going to tell me if it’ll be okay.
And, I’ll let out a sigh of relief—because no matter the answer, I will know.
