Outside it’s raining. People scurry by the window with umbrellas or hoods puled low over their faces. The clouds deepen the early evening darkness. Street lights create little pools of radiance as their light reflects of the falling rain drops. Cars speed past down Connecticut Avenue. The light from inside illuminates an anti-war poster tapped to an ugly tree just outside.
Inside the air is filled with quiet jazz and conversation. Baristas call out orders, people chat as they drink their coffee, or tea. The window reflects the modern counter, high celling, drop lighting. It reflects the purple chairs. I sit in one of the chairs, my copy of this weeks Economist in my lap, an empty cup on the table next to me. Looking out at the rain.
My thoughts are half a world away in another coffee shop. Standing at the door, ready to head out into the rain. We wait for the light on Goswell Road to change, then dash out and cross the road. It’s only a couple of blocks back, but the rain is cold and the wind drives it around the umbrella no matter how you hold it. The two of us huddle behind the umbrella braced against the wind, she wraps her arm around mine and huddles as close as she can.
Little memories just sneak up on me all the time, vivid images, reminding me of how much I miss that time. Walking past a brick wall reminds me of a pub in Oxford, sitting with J███████ talking about nothing. The pattern in a carpet brings back the hallway of a hotel in Milan, A—– and I exhausted after a long night wondering the city. But most of the memories remind me of how much I miss her. The way she smiles, the way she pushes her hair behind her ear, the sound of her voice, the feel of her hand when she held mine. Nights spent walking around London, days spent sitting in coffee shops. Not a day goes buy that I don’t think of her, that I don’t wish I could find some way to be near her.
I miss you Tati