I have a strange addiction to coffee. When I was in middle school, every morning, right before breakfast, my father would pull exactly two shots of espresso and pour it over ice. Dad claimed that milk and sweetener took away from the coffee bean’s pure taste. “Coffee is meant to be enjoyed in its basic form,” he often advised. The smell of espresso and the song of words reminded me of him and why I fell in love with literature in the first place. It represented the start of our day, and there was nothing more exciting than spending the mornings talking about books with my Dad. However, as the years went by, the warm smell of coffee began to fade. I soon came to realize that although espresso was bitter and robust, my Dad wasn’t.
I don’t usually bother going to these cafés with rushed service, high prices, and mediocre coffee. These businesses typically do well because of the charming atmosphere with the fake grass and flower walls, wooden tables, lightbulb chandeliers, watercolor paintings, and fairy lights along the walls. Normally, cafés wouldn’t be my type of vibe but with my 8 am class, I’ll go with convenience over quality. Apparently, according to the Daily Boston, the campus coffee shop, Tuscan Day makes “the best espresso in town” with coffee beans imported straight from Italy. Even with the familiar smell of coffee beans and modern design, I feel like I am in some cliché rom-com movie where the set designer references Pinterest for inspiration.
“One medium cold brew,” the redheaded woman in front says to the tall barista with her scratching the side of her head and squinting at the menu lying on top of the counter.
“That will be $3.88.”
“Darn it; I left my wallet in the car. I’ll be ri—” the redhead digs with her head practically inside the purse.
“Don’t worry about it, ma’am., I got it. Hey, uhh…” Why is this guy’s name tag all of a sudden so hard to find? Ah, there it is. Dang, get it together. “Soonyoung, could you add a double shot espresso over ice—in a venti,” I say, unable to hold eye contact.
Soonyoung freezes, staring at me. Suddenly I wished I combed my long, messy black hair this morning.
“Hello? Did you get that?” I ask, waving my hand in his face. Why is he just standing there?
“Oh, yeah, sorry. Umm, your new total is $6.70. Name?”
“Hanami.”
“Hanami…” Soonyoung says, rolling back his broad shoulders. His once hunched back straightens. Soonyoung has soft wavy black hair, thinned rimmed glasses over his button nose, and full pink, plump lips that I think I saw curl up a bit when he said my name. “Got it, thanks. I will have your order ready soon.”
“Ms. Hanami, thank you so much for helping me. If you would not mind waiting, I can get my wallet from the car and repay you for your kindness,” the petite woman said with her hand resting on my shoulder.
“Oh no, don’t worry about it. Why don’t we sit down and wait together? I have a few minutes before my bus arrives.”
It turns out that the older woman’s name is Hera, and this is her favorite coffee shop because it refrains from playing loud, obnoxious, and repetitive radio music. Funny enough, this place reminds her of her home back in Florence. Maybe Pinterest is more accurate than what I initially gave it credit for. As I listen to her tell me about her love for this café, I do not notice the gentleman walking towards us. Wow, he’s quick. Not bad.
“For Hanami and Hera.” Soonyoung hands the drinks to us and swiftly returns to his station before I can express my gratitude. He runs off, tripping on his way to the register. I cannot help but chuckle a little bit and wonder if he is always this shy or if I am just somewhat intimidating.
After multiple refusals for repayment and goodbyes to Hera, I am off to university. As I walk into British Literature 301, I head straight to the seat at the front of the room. Maybe sitting at the front will prevent me from dozing off. I could focus on the lecture material and not on the clumsy barista. Finally, after settling down in my seat with my laptop, I take a sip of my doppio. Through the translucent liquid, I see an elegant script written on the cup. My body warms up as my heartbeat rises. My hands are sweating and shaking from excitement. Whether it is because of the caffeine in my system or not, intuitively, I feel it is something more. Maybe this café does sell the best espresso in town.
The Earth laughs in flowers
-R.W.E.
~~~~~
“Hanami Miura, did I ever tell you the story of your birth?” Dad asked me one night after we read “Hamatreya” by Ralph Waldo Emerson.
My name means “cherry-blossom viewing” in Japanese. Cherry blossoms would bloom all over Japan, filling the cities with petals that would dance in the wind during the springtime. A blanket of pink blossoms covered walkways to celebrate the start of a new season--a flower that brought pleasant and bittersweet memories. The day of my birth was the start of spring. Dad said that when he watched the cherry blossoms fall, he saw it as a sign that my birth helped bring light to his world after a harsh, cold season. Despite his life-long battle with cancer and mom’s death after childbirth, he saw me as the spring to his winter. I may not have had the chance to meet my mother, but I thought as long as I had my father by my side, there was nothing more I could ask for.
“Do you miss your home in Japan, Dad? We don’t have pretty cherry blossoms here in Boston.” I looked up at him and asked, with my eyebrows furrowed. I have never been to Japan, but Dad adored his home country. He made sacrifice after sacrifice to ensure that I would have the opportunities he never had, even if it meant immigrating to an unknown country halfway around the world.
“Sweetie, no number of blossoms could compare to the beauty that I have right here. My home will always be with you.”
~~~~~
The espresso at Tuscan Day surpasses my expectations. No, it is not because a cute boy made it for me. Even though it may be part of the reason, I am very particular about my caffeine. The espresso did not leave a lingering bitter aftertaste, nor did it seem over-extracted and have an aggressive, sour acidity. The kind of acidity that makes child-you despise coffee and your face scrunch up in disgust. Soonyoung somehow manages to find the espresso’s sweet spot, which is not common, especially in a generic café. But then again, Soonyoung is not a common man.
Ok, act natural, Hanami. All you have to do is make small talk. Small talk is easy, right? I’ll talk about the weather. Ahh, no, that’s lame. God.
“Hiya, welcome to Tuscan Day. What can I get for ya?”
There it is, that smile again. Soonyoung’s smile is more prominent this time, and it reached his bright brownish hazel eyes, making them look like crescent moons.
“Double shot of espresso, over ice—in a large cup.” So much for small talk.
“Got it. That will be $2.87.”
“Hanami,”
“I know,” he replies and glances at me before taking my money.
I quickly grab the receipt ignoring the warmth in my cheeks and rush over to a table with a clear view of him. I want to see how he did it. The last time I had coffee that tasted this good was when Dad used to make it for me. From the looks of it, Soonyoung uses a Breville espresso machine—it is not the most expensive machine in the market, but it is not a standard household appliance either. My father owned one of those before he was forced to sell it to pay for his medical bills. Although the café markets its “imported Italian coffee beans” as the central selling point for its coffee, in reality, it all comes down to the grind. It does not matter how prestigious the coffee is; the coffee grind will make or break the espresso’s taste. Soonyoung knows this. He spends a couple of minutes examining the grind before he inserts it into the machine. Since his back is facing me, I cannot judge whether the crema is good or not. Soonyoung got it right last time, so I trust he will again. Before he notices my intense stare, I take out my pocketbook to read. To my dismay, Soonyoung does not say a word when he brings me over my drink since a slew of customers comes rushing in, forcing him to retreat to his station.
It seems like I am in the right spot at the right time because before I leave the coffee shop to go to class, I overhear Soonyoung talking to his coworker. I chuckle at the fact they were speaking relatively loudly, unaware that I can hear the entirety of their conversation.
“Why don’t you talk to her?”
“I am waiting for the right moment. These things take time, and I want Hanami to know that I genuinely am inter-,” Soonyoung gets cut off by the screeching sound of the blender before I could hear him finish his reply. Do people seriously still order frappuccinos?
“Oh shut up, man. You don't even know this girl. You just like her because she was reading that boring book you like,” His coworker says with a smirk, nudging Soonyoung.
“Not a book, a collection of essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson, ” Soonyoung replies, rolling his eyes. When I left the cafe, I couldn’t hide the grin on my face. I guess I am not intimidating after all.
Perfumes are the feelings of flowers.
-H. H.
~~~~~
Life does not stop even if you are having a bad day. I walk right into the low-lit quiet café even though I am not in the mood for coffee, quite frankly. Surprisingly, there is no line this morning, so I am quickly face-to-face with Soonyoung.
“The usual?” he happily asks me before noticing my mood. He stands there still, biting his lip as if he were trying to figure out what to say.
“I’m sorry I’m actually not in the mood.”
Today is my dad’s death anniversary. What frustrates me the most is how beautiful the weather was with clear sunny skies and a breeze. Normally sitting on the steel bench meant sacrificing your bum to the Texas heat, but today, I am comfortable. I sit here in silence as cars pass by me as I stare with an unfocused gaze into the horizon. Sounds of cars, chatter, birds, and wind combined into one as I sit here cursing at the world for taking my father.
“Although I do not know him well, he reminds me a lot of you, Dad,” I say to the sky as if it is listening.
“I am sorry I do not visit or talk to you as often as I should. Your grave must be collecting weeds by now. There’s this boy. I met him at the coffee shop—he’s sweet and poetic like you. Is it silly that I like someone because he makes me good coffee? You would tell me that it’s not that simple. How I wish things were simple…”
~~~~~
Today is a new day. I survived April 13th. Thanks to a certain someone, my brisk mornings have become slow and steady again. Mornings used to remind me of the bittersweet memories I had with my Dad, where coffee and literature slowly transitioned to rushed middle school bus trips. Now I am learning how to wake up and enjoy the little things even if it is in the form of concentrated bean juice.
After all these years, I finally remember how beautiful and crisp the morning air is. For once I decide to brush out my bedhead. Inspired by my newfound sense of style, I put on a maxi dress and my worn-in black Doc’s. Before the sound of my reminder rings, I am already out the door heading to the one place that I can’t seem to stop thinking about.
Soonyoung looks different today. His dark circles under his eyes are more visible, and his skin looks slightly paler. Even as he drags his body towards the register, Soonyoung's expression lightens when he notices me. I wonder, does he look this happy with every customer?
“Hey! Will that be another doppio over ice in a venti, today? I’m glad to see you’re doing well today,” he says, trying to hold back another yawn.
“Yeah, make it two,” I reply, handing my card.
“For a friend?”
“Something like that.”
Despite his apparent fatigue, Soonyoung does not skip out on writing a note on the coffee cup. Although his calligraphy is not as neat as usual, the message never fails to put my mind in a spiral.
There never yet was flower fair in vain.
- J.R.L.
Was it dumb of me to buy coffee for someone who makes it for a living? What if Soonyoung hates coffee? What if he mistakes the coffee on the table as trash and throws it away before even looking at my note? No use contemplating it now; I already bought it. It does not hurt to have a little faith that he will take it. Plus, there is no way in Hell I am drinking four shots of espresso. Although I have some time to spare before my first class, I decide to leave with only one coffee cup in hand leaving the other one on the table closest to the register. After all, no one likes watered-down coffee.
Even the Sun must rest for the Moon to shine.
-H.M.
~~~~~
It’s Saturday morning meaning no class today. Will it be odd if I show up at the café even though I technically could stay home and make my own? God no. What’s the fun in that? It’s Saturday, after all, a day meant for some fun and freedom. Freedom from school, freedom from work, freedom from worries.
The vibe at the café is different today. Almost every seat is taken except for my usual one. Thank goodness. Although the café is full of what seems like a million people, my eyes are set on one person, Soonyoung. Today he looks radiant, a stark contrast to yesterday. He is smiling from ear to ear again, his nose scrunching, and his eyes sparkling like little stars. Soonyoung is truly glowing like the Sun after a rainy day. This time when I come up to him, he has my order ready for me.
“On the house,” he says, handing me my usual.
Instead of walking to my seat, I stand there and read the message on the cup out loud in front of him,
No flower blooms without once being shaken.
-S. L.
Soonyoung stands there, stunned, with his eyes widening, a drop of sweat falling from his temple, and a peachy blush forming on his face.
“So far, I got Ralph Waldo Emerson, Heinrich Heine, and James Russell Lowell. Who is S.L.?”
“Soonyoung Lee.”
“Well, Soonyoung Lee. Maybe write your number next time; I am running out of cabinet space for all these cups.” I did not have it in my heart to throw these paper cups away.
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