The Evening Cup of Hot Chocolate

I'm unsure about today's emotions. It's been two years since I last saw Michelle. Since then, I got engaged to Marie, and now there's a possibility that she might be pregnant. The idea of my fiancée being pregnant is quite overwhelming, but for now, I need to conceal the emotions I'm experiencing.

A deep sense of fear and anxiety burns in my stomach, akin to a fiery lake—a harbinger, perhaps, of where I might endure the second of life's trials. While waiting for my hot chocolate with whipped cream, I absentmindedly play with the sugar packets. It's a nostalgic choice; Michelle used to enjoy this treat back in high school—a different lifetime, at least from my perspective.

The door's bell jingles loudly, drawing my attention as a couple enters side by side. Despite the usual hustle and bustle on a Friday night, this evening has been surprisingly quiet. Normally, this place is packed with all sorts of people. The darkening world outside is momentarily interrupted by the headlights of a passing car. The gleam briefly blinds the coffee shop, as the large glass windows offer little protection against the brightness when the blinds aren't down.

A cup of hot chocolate is delicately placed in front of me on the faux marble table, accompanied by a sugar cookie adorned with colorful sprinkles. A napkin is carefully slid under the china plate cradling my cup. Everything appears flawless: the steaming ceramic mug exhibits no stains on the side or saucer. The whipped cream gently melds into the cocoa, creating tiny bubbles as the two meet, and steam rises, tickling my nose. I breathe in the vapor and can't help but smile.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, prompting me to flip it open and answer a call from my soon-to-be wife.

"Hey, hon," I say into the microphone.

"Did you get there safe?" she asks. I huff and puff.

"Don’t drink too much coffee, hon. You know it'll make your stomach upset."

"I know, I know. I’m not drinking coffee."

"Okay, good. I’ll see you back at home." She makes a kissing sound before hanging up. It's become a regular thing now. Not that I dislike it; in fact, I hate it. I don’t control her, and I don’t own her, so she can kiss all she wants.

The front door swings open, and the bell signals someone's arrival. It's her, Michelle. The sight of her stirs up feelings of insecurity, reminiscent of my youth when I felt inadequate and weak. I quickly avert my gaze to something else—anything but her eyes, smile, or body. I scan the room and focus on an old man sipping tea while engrossed in the day’s paper.

“Hey Freddie. It’s so nice to see you again!” Michelle Cho, graceful and expressive, her almond-shaped eyes sparkle with warmth, framed by a set of elegantly arched eyebrows that conveyed both intelligence and curiosity. Her dark, glossy hair cascaded down in loose waves, framing her face like a rich, mahogany curtain. Her complexion was radiant, and a gentle smile played on her lips, revealing a quiet confidence that added to her allure. Beauty in every way. At least to my eyes.

She opens her arms, expecting a hug, and I comply as I always did with her demands. Her embrace is firm and brief, and as she slowly releases me, her eyes hold mine for a moment. I'm going to be married.

"How have you been?" she asks, accompanied by a warm smile. "How is engagement treating you?"

A lump forms in my throat. Don't look away, don't overreact.

"It’s been fun, exciting, new," I reply, choosing the words that come to mind. Has it been fun? Well, Marie can be fun, but it comes with moments like dealing with her drunken behavior and having to pick her up when she can't walk. Is it exciting and new? Yes, exciting in the sense that the intimacy is good, but new in the sense that I've never been in a relationship I sometimes wish to break apart for my own sake.

"Well, I’m glad to hear. I’ve been waiting for a call from you," Michelle says, taking a seat across from me and helping herself to my hot chocolate. She takes a sip, leaving a whipped cream and hot chocolate mustache on her lip. With a giggle, she wipes it away. "Oops. Maybe I should order my own drink, eh?"

"Go for it. How have things been with you?" I ask, pulling my drink back. I take a sip from the opposite side of where her lips were, and it seems to amuse Michelle, prompting another giggle. I wipe my mouth with a napkin, and Michelle watches with wide eyes.

“I’m doing good, you know? I got a job at an accounting firm, and I got a Pug," she says, pulling out her cellphone to show me a picture of her dog in a new brown bed. "His name is Peepsy."

"Do you still live over on Hansen Road?" I inquire.

“Yes, the basement apartment. The upstairs people moved out, remember them? The bald man and his five children and a wife who always cooked fish." She puts away her phone and smiles at me. These moments, reminiscent of high school and college, leave me breathless, unable to speak because I'm so captivated by her.

“You’re always so tough. Living on your own since eighteen. How are your parents?” I ask, taking another delightful sip of the warm cocoa with its bitter sweetness.

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to them in years.” She answers.

“Still?” I ask, “Don't you want to order your drink? You have to go up to the counter."

“Sure, I’ll be right back! I’m going to get a hot chocolate.”

When she returns, she's holding her drink in a to-go cup. "I like to drink out of these instead of the cups. And, I got peppermint flavor," Michelle shares as she sits down across from me, taking a sip of her cocoa. She makes a strange sound and then pretends to vomit. "I’m kidding around!" she says, laughing. "I thought it would be funny."

I can feel myself smiling at her. Our eyes lock, and she catches my gaze. She's fiddling around with her cup, and I attempt to look away, but she smiles, pulling me back in. Damn her. Why did I message her last week? I knew this would happen. Emotions, a flood of them. Memories of our time in love—eight years of her embrace—and here she is, still wanting to be with me.

"How did your fiancée agree to you meeting me here? Hmm?" she asks, and I find myself at a loss for words. "You didn't lie to her, did you..." Michelle’s words trail off with a smile as she takes a sip of her drink, her eyes unwavering. She's persistent.

"No, of course not. Marie is an understanding woman." Two lies packed into one sentence. Bravo, liar.

“Oh, I’m sure she knows.” Michelle swiftly changes the subject. “I have a new poetry collection coming out.”

“You still write poetry?” I inquire. She looks away, her eyes scrutinizing something or someone outside.

“I do. Sometimes I write about us,” she confesses.

I nearly choke on my drink. “About us?”

“Old stories, told in poetry. Like the times at the old derelict bridge in the forest park near our school,” she explains, a smile gracing her lips.

"Those were good times," I find myself starting to smile, and I let out a chuckle. It's quite embarrassing.

"Do you remember when we kissed at that little wooden bridge just down the way by Humber?" Michelle asks, eyeing me as if I'm made of candy. I feel a burning pit in my stomach, mixed with the urge to vomit. I don't want to look at her now; I can sense the passion emanating from her.

"Please stop, Michelle," I say, trying to avoid eye contact. "I am in a happy relationship. One I cannot screw up. Not anymore, Michelle."

"Look at me, Freddie," she insists, anger evident in her tone. "I loved you for eight damn years, gave you everything I had. My emotions were there for you, open to be picked apart."

Here we go. This is not what I had in mind.

"Jesus, please don't start this. I know how you can begin to get out of control with your anger," I try to reason with her, but it's like putting oil on a flame.

"My anger is justified. You're the one who left me, don't you remember? Now you call me just to put me down again. How selfish!"

"Selfish?" I ask, dumbfounded. "I told you I was engaged. You thought I would make a move on you while I wear a damn ring?"

"Why did you call me then?" Michelle's almond and brown eyes hold disappointment—a feeling I can vividly recall from every instance she was angry or disappointed with me.  Times of long ago.

"Don't be so angry with me, okay?" I say, attempting to take control of the situation. I never should have messaged her. "I wanted to reconnect with you so we could make up and perhaps start a new relationship."

"Did you message me out of boredom or out of frustration?" She asks suddenly, her demeanor radiating anger and disappointment. I've never seen her like this before.

"I won't answer that," I declare, feeling a sense of fatigue creeping in. My legs rise as I stand, inadvertently striking the table. The impact causes my cup of cocoa to spill, creating a messy stain on both the table and the saucer. "I'm not inclined to defend my current life situation, especially not to you, Michelle."

"Yeah, well, good luck dealing with that formidable woman, Freddie."

"You’re miserable sometimes," I observe, retrieving my wallet and placing a twenty-dollar bill on the table. "Perhaps it's best if we part ways and don't communicate again. I wish you a fulfilling life, Michelle."

I pause, awaiting a response, but she remains silent. No words are exchanged anymore. It’s over. Accepting this, I exit through the front doors, moving forward from this moment. As I increase the distance between us, I glance back and contemplate – was she correct? On that evening I reached out to her, was it boredom or frustration that fueled my actions?

Or was it love?