Spilt Coffee

Ten.

It was barely evening and the sky was dark with snow-whipped wind. Inside at a corner table, my eyes roved over the caramel swirls of my cappuccino. My fingers were swollen from the heat of the cup and from the walk through frigid air to a coffee shop I'd never been to. I'd have chilblains by the end of the week. Northern winter had begun and I hated it. I missed the year-round warmth of my hometown. At least the coffee here was amazing. 

Nine.

I glanced from my liquid comfort again to the commotion that had been growing the last couple minutes. A woman was standing about fifteen feet away from me. She wore her scarf and boots well, like a true local. And I was sure she wore a welcoming northern smile well, too. If only she wasn't already sporting a scowl. I half expected her to go rabid and attack the poor barista she had summoned with a flap of her hand and her melting gaze.

The worker who stood before her looked to be in his late twenties, but he could be older. I hadn't noticed him before. His shaggy hair, glasses, and lean build gave him a docile appearance. And that apron tied at the waist was charming. Regardless of any of that, though, I was impressed. Besides the stiffness in his jaw, he seemed calm. I would have been having a full-blown panic attack. I kind of was having one now just from watching them.

Eight.

I bit my lip when I caught myself staring. The woman was already making a scene, and I didn't like being an accomplice to the barista's growing uncomfortableness, no matter how stoic he was. She was shaking the blended drink in her hand while accosting the barista with a string of criticisms. My first thought had been, why in the world did she order an iced coffee in winter? And then I was tuning out her words, an innate reflex to loud or aggressive stimuli.

My friends and family had teased me for my mousy nature throughout my school age years. And though I was now thirty-two years old and half a country away from anyone who knew me well enough, confrontation still spiked my adrenaline and had me looking for the nearest exit. There was twinge in my chest for the barista as I flicked my gaze back to him.

Seven.

He towered over the woman, and the apron he wore only accentuated the broadness of his shoulders, so the sight was almost funny. He ran long fingers through his mop of hair as the woman aimed a judgmental finger at him. Then she poked him. I gaped. He responded with a weak smile and an upturned palm. He just earned a thousand points from me for his nerves of steel and coolness of head.

The manager had yet to appear. And the only other worker was currently serving a line of customers, but she kept trying to glance around the corner to the source of the noise. I suddenly felt very antsy.

Six.

I was good at convincing myself that I'd totally come to anybody's rescue. Someone being bullied? I'd stand up for them. Someone being robbed? They could definitely count on me. Yeah. Only in my daydreams. The reality was I'd be the first one to duck and cover. Or I'd be the one in peril. And actually, I had been.

Eleven years ago, I had been robbed. In the bustling, sea-side town I grew up in, a guy had snatched my purse and made off with it, knocking me flat in the process. But that hadn't been the end of it. For my purse, yes. But not for me. A man had stopped and pulled me to my feet. Looking back on the memory for the ten-millionth time, I had been so flustered and dismissive of his help. But he had just smiled and insisted. And eventually, he became the love of my life.

Loss prickled in my chest. Why was I still thinking about him, six years later? The man who disappeared from my life, who made me run across the country so I wouldn't end up in a shallow grave like him? The man I would have died with if he had given me the chance? It had been six years of off-the-grid towns and noncommittal jobs. It had been six years of me trying to erase the image of his shadowed face in the driver's seat. Of me trying to grab his arm when he forced the door opened, pushed me out, and sped off into the dark.

I had long ago thrown away the clip in the newspaper of a car found in rushing water weeks later, mangled to bits. There had even been an obituary for the both of them since I dropped off the grid after that. I hadn't read it. I should have moved on from him by now. I swallowed back the nostalgia with so much force I nearly choked. Blinking, I returned to the drama. I'd rather bask in the shamelessness of a gawker rather than the grief of a widow. 

Five. 

The barista managed to slip in an apology. Not that it helped. Poor guy. My coffee in hand, I was about to get up and leave when another wave of familiarity washed over me. There had been something about his voice. This time, I forced myself to really look at the man. His hair was dark and he looked good with it, but it didn't quite match the natural tone of his skin. Blond would look better. I'd bet my meager savings he was a natural blond. This time, the prickle in my chest made my eyes water. My heart thudded in my ears. My brain stuttered. It locked between two motions, trying to make me deny what I was desperately trying to accept. What would the husband I lost years ago be doing in front of me, working in a tiny café in a tiny town? 

Four.

The woman moved so quickly I nearly missed it. High on self-fueled rage, the woman plucked off the dome lid of her coffee and threw the contents in the man's face. What? My mind went blank. I winced at the same time the man flinched. The icy mixture soaked into the front of his shirt in a sticky mess. He pulled off his glasses. I could only see part of his face, as most of it was covered by the sleeve of his shirt. His bangs stuck to his forehead as he wiped it away.

Three.

Glancing about the café, the woman blushed. I and the other two customers who had been enjoying their evening drinks watched her rush to flee the scene, nearly tripping over a chair on her way to the door. If this town was as small as I thought it was, this was going to make the juiciest gossip for the two older ladies staring from the counter. The girl behind the counter was fumbling with a drink.

I looked back to the man, cheeks red enough even I could see them from where I was standing. Wait. When did I stand up? And why was I now walking towards him? The only thing I was aware of was my own drink locked between my cold-hot fingers, Styrofoam cup threatening to fold.

Two.

Shoulders hunched as he tried to air out the front of his shirt, the man faced me for the first time. He froze, one hand gripping his shirt, the other holding his glasses. Eyes holding mine, now I had no doubt. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. I stopped as if jolted. I dropped my coffee, unaware of the steaming brew splashing over my shoes and bare ankles.

Relief flooded my heart so hard I thought it was going to burst. But disbelief held me rooted, or I would have locked him in a crushing hug and an equally crushing kiss. Memories painstakingly buried bowled over themselves to fill every thought. Once there, they kicked the words out of my mouth.

One.

"You're alive?"

That question melted the man in front of me. The casual grace I remember envying replaced the tension in his muscles. His surprise transformed into relief. He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. It was my husband that was standing there, looking completely unlike himself with that hair and glasses and that uncertainty and that drink all over him. He was alive and almost close enough to touch. Ten seconds and he's back in my life. But I knew him. In another ten seconds, though, that smile would falter, and he would tell me to leave again.

Not this time.