Coffee, Silk and Chocolate Pie

“What do you think?"

"Hmm?" He looks up from his book and to his love. She tips her head towards the large, fixed window of the café that they are seated outside of, pressed close together on the short bench.

He sees their reflection, her head resting on his chest, his arm across her shoulders. The steam billows from the tops of their coffee mugs sitting on the glass-top, patio table in front of them. Her half-eaten cinnamon roll remains abandoned on the edge of the table and his slice of chocolate pie awaits his inevitable consumption of the enticing dessert. It is a lovely look into a perfect moment between him and his love. She smiles dreamily when their eyes meet in the window, lighting the framed fixture up.

"Do you think we look happy?" she asks wistfully.

"I think we are happy."

She shakes her head. "But do we look it?"

"Do you think it matters?"

"Yes. I want our happiness to be what people see when they look at us."

"I bet they only see how beautiful you are." Gently, he places a kiss atop her head, her black hair a soft touch to his lips.

"Is that all you see when you look at me?"

"Yes. What more is there?" he asks, his tone teasing.

She sighs. "You're impossible."

Silence falls over the two. He feels a bit of movement from her and when he looks down, she is weaving a lavender-colored, silk scarf through her fingers. The same scarf he had given her for the last birthday she shared with him. Her favorite gift ever, she had told him. Though she rarely bothers to pair the small article of clothing with an outfit, she is never without the square bit of silk, occasionally wearing it around her neck or, more often, tying it around her wrist. It is her favorite gift ever, after all. He noticed she would often fiddle with the garment whenever she was lost in her own head or nervous, something she had yet to notice about herself.

“Why do you want others to know if we are happy?”

“If we are happy? But, you just said-”

“Sweets, you threatened to drown me this morning…”

“I would have tried to resuscitate you."

"I worry you wouldn't have."

"Hmm." A suspicious non-answer as she takes a tepid sip of her coffee.

"Do you think we are happy?" he asks.

"Yes. You give me every reason to be, even despite my own desire to drown you from time to time."

"Good. And thank you for never acting on that. I would miss these moments together and visiting you in prison would be so difficult for me, emotionally."

She lightly pushes back on his shoulder, but the unmistakable sound of her soft laughter reassures him that she is not truly angry—only her individual form of playful frustration that she reserves for him. He runs a hand up and down her arm as more silence passes between them, the rain falling on the sidewalk beyond the café’s patio the lone interruption to the total calm of the moment.

“There is always so much focus on all the bad in the world, you know?” she finally says.

“I do.”

“I want to be one small part of the good that people see.”

He smiles at her words. “Keep being yourself, that’s all the world needs.”

“That’s silly.”

“It’s not. You have a big, beautiful heart with an endearing desire to make every day the best one yet for everyone around you.”

She buries her face into his firm chest. “You’re only trying to get back on my good side.” Her muffled words do nothing to dissuade him. Instead of arguing, he runs his fingers through her hair until she eventually goes back to resting her head against his chest.

“Do you believe anyone is truly genuine?” she asks after a long while. Their coffee had cooled off enough that the steam ceased and the heavy rain steadied to a light drizzle. A handful of new patrons had joined them on the patio. Like he and her, the others keep their conversations low and private.

“Sure,” he responds. Through the window's reflection, he watches the scarf glide effortlessly through her fingers again. Like an acrobatic, silken snake, he thinks to himself. She is deep in her own head, looking at nothing in particular now, not seeing him study her and her manipulations with the scarf. It is in these moments, when she does not realize she is being observed, that he sees her honest and feeling. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugs. “Seemed like a good question.”

“A very good question, I think.”

“You probably have a morbid answer, then," she says, faking annoyance. Or so he attempts to convince himself. She tilts her head up and catches his eye.

“Who would you consider genuine?”

“Hmm. Children.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

She catches him off guard with her answer, so, he waits, giving her the chance to continue.

“They do not care much for keeping up appearances, like us adults strive to. Many will wear their displeasure proudly on their faces. Or joy, sadness—whatever the emotion may be. You never have to worry if a child is lying to you to inflate your ego or spare your feelings. Even if it hurts, you will always get the truth.”

“Good point. Children can be brutally honest."

She nods. “Like Emma, she is a little goblin monster with her honesty.”

He smiles, remembering one time, in particular, his love’s four-year-old niece, Emma, had expressed blatant indifference to a present they had given her. No decorum from the little hellspawn. The interaction did nothing to tamp their affections for the child, though. How could they be offended by such a rare display of honesty in this otherwise considerately fraudulent society?

“What kind of people do you think are genuine?” she continues.

“Miserable people,” he answers quickly.

“Really? I would say the opposite.”

“You say happy people, then?”

She nods.

“I see happy people often pretend to be happy, even when they are miserable, to spare the peace for those around them, but miserable types crave the pain of misery because they do not know how to be happy.”

“That makes sense. Seems a sad way to live, though,” she says, wishing for all the miserable people of the world to find their happiness.

“I think so, too,” he agrees, thinking about how lonely those happy people must feel during the times no one bothers to look past the smile.

“What kind of person do you think I am?”

“A beautiful person that feels deeply and loves hard and cares far too much about others’ opinions.”

“You're so cheesy.”

"What type of person am I?" he asks, a smile in his voice.

"A cheesy person."

Dipping his head down, he lightly pulls on the two loose ends of the scarf, that is now draped around her neck, guiding her face towards his own. He kisses her pouting lips softly and smiles. "I love you."

He feels her smile against his own.

“I love you, too.”