i park far away so that i can walk. i want to take my time. the smell of salted sea reminds me of home, of days when it was just you and me. my hair bleached and tangled and desperately needing a wash. you didn’t care though. you thought it was cool. in those days it was just us, talking about the surf.

i enter the coffee shop. i am waiting for my friend.

i take my coffee black. it seems like the easiest interaction between me and the barista. anyone who takes cream or sugar in their coffee must not have enough hair on their chest. my order will never change. 

i come to this spot for the same reason i go to any other coffee ship within a 5 mile radius: it’s near the beach. the location for any particular rendezvous may change, but i notice what’s constant. the waves whispering over laughing women, huddled in the corners. the whooshing sound carrying a tune, like sirens singing my secrets. the song remains the same no matter where i go.

and also the men. the old men in the coffee shop remind me of you. ruggedness in the confident stature of someone who has worked through everything with whisky in his coffee cup. isolated from the world, sitting alone, nursing the usual bitterness and brandy. these men sit in coffee shops, aimlessly adorning their lives with disposable cups and stained teeth.

i never once caught you sitting here like them. you took your coffee to-go, braving the surf in the scorching heat of the summer sun. warm, leathered skin at 8 am—dawn patrol, our routine. tattoos fading with every sip of cold coffee.

i feel like i know these men. i see in their faces the wearing down of the soul over 6 decades on this seared, solemn earth. i recognize their masks because they look the same as yours. i wonder if they take their coffee black too. 

my friend arrives. she’s a good friend. she reminds me of the sun, radiant and bright. the memories of beach days come creeping in—leisure and tranquility. relics of peace dance with the freshly roasted coffee in her cup. is this what normal is? i wait for normal like i wait for 80 degree beach days in the haze of august. sometimes i get glimpses of it. the days when the sun shines in january and the sameness of days lures me back to salt water, which i cannot help but to let caress me. it teases me like this. i cannot have all of it at once. i will have to wait. still, the sirens sing my secrets. 

my friend laughs but really i’m elsewhere, admiring the old men tell stories about the hell’s angels and topanga canyon. there are pieces of you in these weather-torn warriors, fighting against time and inevitability. but i know the world keeps spinning, and i will continue meeting friends for coffee, and every time i ask for my coffee black i will be reminded of my 16th birthday and the one bedroom apartment next to the wash that always reeked of cigarettes.

the salt air bleeds into the smell of freshly roasted coffee. 

i have not touched my drink. i’ve let it grown cold, leaving only a stained interior. my friend’s laugh is still booming over the babel of old men as i excuse myself, throwing out my cup and realizing that i have been in this coffee shop for too long. i walk out the door and am greeted by the ocean. one day i will surrender to poseidon for the final time, and i will let him weather and waste and grind me into powder once we have finished, leaving no glimmer of a person behind.

i thrive in the black whirlpool of not knowing where i will be sleeping tomorrow night.