My cup of black coffee was scalding hot.
I waited for her to arrive. I checked my make-up. It was on point. My dress was in pristine condition. The engagement ring guarded inside my clutch. I was ready! Ready but bored. I surveyed my surroundings. Loving couples, quarreling couples, distant couples. And a lonely sitting duck, myself.
I eavesdropped conversations to pass time. A couple of women in their mid-twenties. Both were rocking such avant-garde outfits I was a little jealous of them. Two fashionistas in love. Or so it seemed. The at first glance loving couple were at each other’s throats. It was about not wanting to sign up a prenuptial arrangement. They were in love, why cast doubt into their union? The argument devolved into petty jabs at each other’s outfits. I give them three months, at best.
My cup of black coffee was sat at the right temperature for me to take a sip. I decided against it.
The quarreling couple was actually eccentric in their passion. They were both in their mid-thirties. He was a rotund man who seemed to be wearing his office attire. She exuded extravagance: her clothes, jewelry, even her hairstyle was eye-catching. They engaged each other in a manner resembling an argument. Nothing could be further from the truth. They were making arrangements for the upcoming long weekend holiday with such zeal. It was easy to understand why one would think they were arguing. They were loveaholics. They planned everything: from the moment they woke up until they moment they’d call it a night. I suppose you can’t judge a book by its cover.
My cup of black coffee was cooling down. It was still worth drinking, I’d reckon.
The distant couple, two young men, college classmates, I’d wager, tried their to keep for themselves. Unassuming, low-key, you’d think they’d be plotting a robbery. In hushed voices, I could hear him recite a poem to his beloved as faint as the sway of leaves on a tree. The poem was terrible, make no mistake, but he loved it. He kept gushing in a low voice over the artistic merits of it, how he’d make it big as a poet, so on and so forth. A dose a saccharine that amused my, at this point, everlasting wait for her.
My cup of black coffee was cold at this point. Never mind, I’d order a new one once my fiancee arrived. “The drivers are a bit careless today” – I thought to myself.
At last, she arrived. I saw her right from across the street. She was the Spring to my Winter, as always. A radiant smile formed on her lips as she saw me sitting at the coffee table, waiting for her. I couldn’t help but smirk back. I wish I was as happy-go-lucky as her.
Without a care in the world, she whisked her way towards me, her pace as cheerful as herself. She had to cross the street. That’s when it happened.
An eight thousand, five hundred pounds monstrosity ran over my fiancee. She couldn’t even scream for help. Her death was instantaneous. Everything: herself, our life together, all was over in a blink of an eye.
The noisy café was silent in a split second. I could see people’s lips move, but I could hear nothing. I could only stare at the stain that used to be the love of my life.
A police investigation started and as usual, nothing came of it. A cold, dead case.
I don’t drink black coffee anymore.