Expectation

Thursday, September 15th

Give up any expectation of today. Of tomorrow. Or the day after.

I gave up my expectation of tomorrow to empower my intentions for today.

Little did I know, my expectations for today would also go quite wrong.

But that’s okay.

I hope she’s somewhere right now, experiencing some super cool worthwhile experience valuable enough to be absent from work today. 

In the bigger picture, the unexpected sometimes happens for good reasons. And bad moments hopefully come and go.

Life is poetry, and God a harsh editor. 

Clutching onto my small iced coffee--the cheapest right to the wifi code and my favorite table by the window--I wish I had gone for lunch with my mom instead.

I felt bad when I turned her down. She hoped we could also go for tea, then picnic in the gardens at the Huntington afterwards, too. It started off with our usual morning routine of exchanging small talk over the phone, then came the repetitive stream of assurances that she would support whatever dreams I have even if they don’t involve going to medical school anymore, no matter what my father says.  

But I should’ve known that people tend to talk and ramble more to you when they’re secretly hoping that you’ll do something for them. They think that the more they give, the more they’ll receive. 

Today is a lesson in how unpleasant that feels.

That’s why I think I should give up on the idea of leaving a letter. At the very least, if I were to deliver it, I shouldn’t even leave a phone number or a clever clue on how to discover my identity--complete anonymity. That way, she would know I don’t expect anything in return.

How to properly express gratitude?

Anyways, back to my mother. She has lived a very unfulfilled life for some years now. She’s had her share of youthful adventures--born the cherished granddaughter of one of Malaysia’s most prominent politicians and business figures, she’s lived lives that should rightfully have stayed confined to the fanciful plotlines of tepidly-inspired screenwriters.

Despite that, she’s lost her way, her love for my dear father. What began as the gripping romance between a dirt-poor medical student and the Malaysian heiress to her father’s agricultural empire, has begun to flop ahead of its 30th season--the writers have lost their touch and given in to predictable tropes.   

I’m sickened by the burden this places on me. It is the parent who should have the answers--or at least the maturity. But I have to ask myself what a loving son would do.

A mother is someone who always thinks of you, generally first. 

I should do well to never forget that every boy’s first love is his mother. Even as I long to give my heart to another, I should be understanding of her constant need for affection.

I aspire to wear my heart on my sleeve. My intentions, undisguised. Not shoved in your face, but obvious enough if you were to look carefully.

It would be deceitful to pretend the intentions of my letter were purely gratitude. For all my desire to write a letter containing only words of genuine gratitude, the most selfish sentences I want to include would read:

“I fell in love at first sight. Then again at the second, third, and tenth. Your smile and our conversations brighten my day, more so than the caffeine in my favorite cold brew. Would you please go out with me?”

The girl behind the marble countertop, with the hime-cut, whose name I don’t even know. 

I knew nothing of you except that you were at the register, on a day I had no place to go. With nothing but your smile--not actually directed at me, at first--I recovered something so important. 

How best to convey my own feelings, taking into consideration her feelings?

I’m so afraid about coming off as creepy, to the point where it is creepy. 

Feelings. Another--an older one.

I said I’d love you forever. I take it back. Or at least qualify it. For you in my heart, there will always be a sweet ache. But the word her no longer brings to mind images of you. She is all I see now--her lovely smile, that splatters purple, pink, and blue (and sometimes indigo) all over these clean white walls. Like the rapturous joy and beautiful confusion captured in the paintings by that famous post-Impressionist, she makes a mess of my mind and causes terrible aches that last long into the night and again in the morning.

If you tallied a 9, then I’d call her a 10. 

I’m sorry, Sofia.

I’ve fallen for a girl more lovely than you. Besides, you were the one who walked away. I suppose it’s already been a year since then.

And needless to say, I have no time or right to see that girl my cousin plans to introduce me to on Saturday. Even of all the smartly-dressed girls who prettily walked in through this café today, none of them could take my eyes off her. 

I let out a sigh. I’m like the insufferable protagonist from a Netflix romcom that’s overstayed its welcome. Are girls all that I can think about?

I would love to go see Chris right now. He’s an amazing guy. Hilarious, cute. His frizzy, wavy 80s mullet bleached blonde and brown, may be the most interesting haircut anyone’s worn this summer. In truth, if I were a girl or just a little more than bicurious, I’d be inclined to address my letter of burning love and desire to him.

Chris would know what to do. Plus, I could use some good feedback on my latest chapter. 

He has that precious writer’s ability to articulate our most difficult feelings. At my second favorite coffee house, he disarms anyone with ease. Kind of dorky, his friendliness glows with brilliance I’m not sure I’ve encountered in someone before. If I’m being honest--perhaps not even in the girl with the hime-cut.

Well, I don’t know yet. Just because someone holds a tranquil expression doesn’t mean they lack a turbulent ocean waiting for the curious diver. Chris is bubbly. Hime-cut girl quietly charms until the moment some parlous character dares draw that most gorgeous, adorable laugh from her unsuspecting lips with an average-level joke that I could’ve told way better. 

I apologize. That was cringe.

I let out another sigh. The caffeine’s gotten to me. I go for the next sip anyway, but there’s barely even ice left--a few melting cubes to rattle against the condensated plastic. 

How can I make her smile?

Sunday, September 18th

For the girl behind the marble counter, with the hime-cut.

Psyche /ˈsīkē/: noun the human soul, mind, or spirit; origin: Greek.

------ ༻❁༺ ------

Psyche, whose name means ‘soul’, is the Goddess of Beauty.

Though born mortal, her interior beauty shined more brilliantly than her exterior. To a lover whose face she did not know--only his sincerity--she gave her love with purity and the gods, to her, immortality. Therefore, beauty originates not in the body, face, clothing, or exterior, but from within the soul.

In a sense, even the grace with which the body moves to exert one’s will and the facial expressions to convey one’s intent, are but reflections of the soul. 

And so, a smile is a reflection of kindness. And those who smile from the heart, are beautiful.

------ ༻❁༺ ------

White walls styled in French relief. Brass lamps and tall west-facing windows provide elegant and natural lighting. 

Clairo’s and Jakob’s “You Might Be Sleeping” plays on a gold-trimmed Marshall Stanmore III in the corner of the room.

The girl behind the marble countertop, colourfully lined with scrumptious paraphernalia, radiates with unpresuming charm. 

In the middle of a daydream, I’d imagine myself ordering one thing off that countertop, day by day, just to ask which of those delights she prefers herself.

Today her face gently lights up, in recommendation of the buttery croffle, topped with red strawberries and freshly whipped cream. I wonder at that glowing demeanor, given every time she listens for an order or delivers to a table, without selectivity.

Looking outside, the sun already paints pinks over blues and the daylight begins to wane as daylight always does, approaching the sleepiest hours of a Sunday afternoon. 

Honestly, where does the time go?

In just a bit, the daydream will come to an end. No busy-bee to ponder, as she goes about crafting delicious cappuccinos and cooking up mischievous banter with the boys and girls sharing tasks beside her. It's a charming scene that resonates with the good moods of regulars who know their antics well. In every laughter-filled interaction, the heart reveals itself.

The clock strikes. It appears they change staff around this time for the evening shift.

Hanging up her apron, she waves goodbye and the door closes behind her with a silent jingle.  

But as I look around, to my wonder, the café retains its brilliance. What may have stemmed from a single person, or maybe just a handful, takes root and blossoms in all those around them. 

Only yesterday, the sound of raindrops came pouring and thundering. I did not know where the sun went, or when it might come again. 

But I remember now. 

It rises with the morning’s grace and, tomorrow, the white walls of this café will be coloured by her smile once more. 

------ ༻❁༺ ------

In other words, thank you for your smile that paints sunsets more beautifully than the sun. I think you’re really cute when you climb the step-stool to reach the cold brew tower, or when you pop up from a crouch, after reaching into a cabinet from underneath the counter. I wish I had taken the chance to taste a cup of your pour-over, but unfortunately a tad too much caffeine and an afternoon headache that day didn't agree.

Wednesday, September 21st

I wasn’t able to give the letter to her today. Or yesterday. Or the day before. 

I did order the pour-over, though.

It was really good. She asked me to tell her how it tasted. And we talked about the different techniques used to brew coffee. 

Cold brew. French press. Siphon. Pour-over.

Pour-over requires the most love and dedication, according to her. But she said even I could probably master it, with a little practice and maybe a good teacher. 

I didn’t know there were so many things to learn about coffee.

So many things I want to learn about her.

Come to think of it, isn’t it strange we haven’t asked each other’s names yet? 

Despite the little things she shares about her day, nervous smiles I’m pretty sure weren’t imagined, and the extra shot of caffeine she sometimes adds without charging or me asking--those must be good signs. Right?

I feel things are happening the right way this time. Getting to know each other, slowly. I don’t want to fall in love with false smiles and harmful presumptions--not like last time.

I want to deliver this letter, if only to let her know how appreciated she is. 

But I’m not very confident. I’ve lost so many of the things that I relied on for confidence.

All I can give now are words. And my sincerity behind them.

With nothing more than my pen, if I could put a smile on someone’s face, that would make me so happy. And if someone could fall in love with me, for nothing more than the daily musings, poems, and little notes I’d write them, that would make me even happier.

But I can’t help but doubt, am I hiding behind an anonymous letter? Am I hiding behind carefully selected words and playful phrases that only show the best sides of me?

I’m afraid.

I’m afraid to lose my place. A special place where people know my face. Where the warmth of a smile is free. A place where I love to write and the coffee tastes better than anywhere else in the world.

Friday, September 30th

Maybe I’ll deliver the letter. I’ll deliver it and then disappear for a month, without expecting a response or anything else in return.

But maybe, because I’m only human, I’ll pass by the coffee shop incidentally, on the way home. I’ll notice the “help wanted” sign that’s been taped against their window, and think to myself:

She was only working there for summer break. She looked a year or two younger than me, and probably hasn’t graduated yet. Classes just started, so she’s probably moved back to whatever town she’s going to college.

I’ll walk in, just like old times, looking for a trace of what used to be. But then, to my surprise, she’ll still be there!

We’ll make hesitant eye contact, and then she’ll nervously hand me an envelope--a response. Inside, an application form. And on the back, in hand-written letters:

Hey you,

Where’d you go?

Those white walls,

Splattered pinks, purples, and blues,

Couldn’t you show me, too?

Cause hey,

Just so you know,

I’ve been all-- 

Well--lonely,

Here, without you.

And then we’ll both spend our days making cappuccinos and falling in love happily ever after.

I’m insufferable, aren’t I? 

Monday, October 3rd

Hime-cut girl.

With the airy bangs and blonde-highlighted tips on her shoulder-length bob, just grazing the barcode tattooed beneath her nape.

What a statement towards the patriarchy. 

Soo-bin? Maybe I overheard it wrong.

Elizabeth?

How fitting--a royal name.

Hime.

Or “Princess”, in Japanese.

姫カット: Hairstyle of the nobility, originating within the Imperial court of the Heian Period (794–1185 CE).

The cute coffee shop girl, whose name I didn’t even know (they don’t wear name tags). 

Until today.

Samantha.

I didn’t expect that.

Samantha? My aunt’s name is Samantha. 

Sam?

Sammie?

Samantha. 

What a lovely name. 

Hearing it from her lips, after clumsily offering my own, any name would have sounded perfect.

Monday is the day I finally learned your name.

------ ༻❁༺ ------

I decided to come in the evening for the first time this summer, after learning they stayed open till 10.

I didn’t expect to see her. Really I didn’t.

She explained she had started classes and worked evenings now.

I must’ve been caught staring at the “help wanted” sign as I walked in. While ordering, she asked if I had thought of applying.

I laughed it off and denied it, but yeah I definitely was. If I worked part-time, I could fit shifts around my current work schedule--I tutor in the afternoons. 

We made our small talk, and told her I tried way too hard at karaoke over the weekend--my throat hurt. She recommended chamomile, and brought me a mug of hot water, too, noticing mine was iced. 

I sat down at a table in the corner and took a careful sip, but still managed to accidentally burn myself. So I waited a few minutes for the liquid to cool, taking the lid off and inverting it. She must’ve noticed, because without me asking, she brought a second mug diluted with cold water--the heat tempered just right. 

Later, a little before closing, I went to return the mug. I thanked her for curing my voice, then asked if she had fun working at the coffee shop.

Jokingly, she remarked, “Oh no, do I really look that miserable?”

I joked back. But I really did think she looked happy working there--I was filled with curiosity. 

I asked her, “Hey, you know what, I know we barely know each other, but I was wondering--what do you think of me? Sorry, not like that. I meant, do you think I’d make a good barista? I lied earlier--when you asked if I was interested in working here, I mean.”

I was choking on embarrassment inside and thought it would be better if someone came and finished the job right then and there.

I didn’t take her for a sadist, but she inspected me very concentratedly for several seconds, her eyebrows revealing her seriousness. Then she laughed and replied with a firm nod saying, “Yeah, I think you’ve got what it takes.”

I took a second to breathe. Then I decided to push my luck a little further. I asked if that meant she’d also put in a good word for me with her boss. She gave me the same tough treatment as earlier, concluded with her laugh, firm nod, and “yes”. 

“Awesome. And, my name’s Andrew, by the way. You know--so you can tell your boss I’d make a good barista when she sees ‘Andrew’ applied.”

“I’m Samantha.”

Silly looks on our faces. Excited, nervous eye contact. The mutual hope--or fancy--that the future might be about to change. These were the first real feelings we shared. I tried to memorize the off-rhythm of each fluttering. 

We began our staring contest again, before trying to suppress another round of giggles. So I gestured towards the door, and she playfully shooed me away.

“I better see your application by tomorrow!”

“I’ll submit it tonight! Thanks again!”

“Don’t go too hard at karaoke next time!” 

She waved me off, before rushing to help a thankfully still patient customer, who I imagined was giving me a mental pat on the back. 

With her assurances, I stepped onto the terrace and approached the moon, tracing its shape behind the clouds. I drove home and took a shower that lasted as long as every reckless love song I could still belt from my abused vocal cords. 

When September ended, I left behind the warm fragrance of coffee in the night. But its richness lingered within the sprawls of my scarf, permeating deeply, to a place I prayed it could always stay.

I flipped my laptop open while I let my hair dry, looking for a copy of my résumé and the picture I'd taken of her boss' email on my phone.

I submitted my application with uncertainty.