For Next Time

The rain had soaked through her thin coat by the time she found the corner.

She had moved to this gray part of the city only three days before.

Every street still looked the same to her, wet and closed and cold.

She did not know the names of the streets, or the name of one person.

The small cafe had one warm yellow window and a low blue door.

Light came through the steamy glass onto the cold, empty sidewalk.

Her cold hand found the brass handle. But she lost her nerve.

She had not spoken out loud to anyone in this city, not once.

Ordering a coffee was a small thing, and somehow a very big thing.

The smell of ground coffee came out under the door, warm and dark and sweet.

She almost turned back toward the loud, crowded station down the hill.

But her feet were cold, and the warm light held her there.

So she pushed the heavy door, and a thin brass bell rang once above her.

Warm air touched her wet face at once, and her glasses turned white.

She saw nothing.

She wiped them with one cold finger, and the small room came back.

Three wooden tables stood in a row under a low wooden ceiling.

A gray cat slept on a chair by the window, in a square of pale light.

An old clock ticked slow on the wall above a shelf of white cups.

The whole room smelled of coffee and old wood and warm rain.

A woman behind the counter looked up from her work and nodded.

The counter was old dark wood, worn smooth and soft by many hands.

The board on the wall was full of words she couldn't make out.

The chalk letters were round and white, but the names meant nothing.

She stood at the counter and felt her warm face grow warmer.

"What is good here?" she asked, in a small and unsure voice.

The woman did not rush her, and did not look at the old clock.

"This one is ours," she said, and pointed to one short word.

"It's strong at first, then soft and a little sweet at the end."

She looked at the short word and did not know how to say it.

She tried the name once, slow, and got the sound of it wrong.

Her face burned.

But the woman only said the word back to her, warm and clear and slow.

She said it again after her, and this time it felt less strange.

It was a small word, but now it sat right in her own mouth.

"Yes, that one, please," she said, and almost smiled at the floor.

The woman turned to a tall steel machine behind the worn counter.

It hissed and shook, and thin white steam rose from it in a slow line.

She moved with sure, easy hands, like she had done this for many years.

Hot dark water dripped slow into a small white cup below.

The smell grew stronger and deeper, bitter and warm and a little sweet.

She wiped the counter with a soft gray cloth while the cup filled.

The rain ran down the window glass in long, thin, silver lines.

The gray cat opened one eye, looked at nothing, and slept again.

Steam from the machine drifted up and touched the cold window glass.

She watched the steady hands work, and her own cold hands felt less stiff.

"Here you are," the woman said kindly, and set the warm cup down.

The cup was rough and heavy in her hand, made of thick brown clay.

A thin line of pale steam rose slow from the dark coffee inside.

She held the warm cup in both of her cold, tired hands.

She lifted it up slow and let the sweet steam touch her face first.

Then she took one small, careful sip of the strong dark drink.

It was bitter at the very front, just as the woman had said.

Then it turned soft and sweet, and the warmth went down deep.

She closed her eyes for one long second and only tasted the coffee.

She reached into her wet coat pocket for a few cold coins.

She set them on the worn counter and got ready to go back outside.

But the woman took one thin paper napkin from a small white stack.

She picked up a short yellow pencil from beside the old machine.

The pencil scratched soft and slow across the thin white paper.

She wrote the name of the drink in round, careful letters.

"So you can say it next time," she said, and slid it across.

On the napkin was the strange word, now soft and clear and hers.

Next time.

She had walked in a stranger, wet and cold and afraid to speak.

Now she stood there holding her own word, written just for her.

It was only a napkin, thin and small and a little damp.

The ink of the letters was still wet and dark on the paper.

But the word wasn't the gift. The gift was that someone expected her back.

She carried the warm cup to a small table by the steamy window.

The wooden chair creaked soft under her as she sat and breathed.

Outside, the gray street was still wet and quiet and cold with rain.

But inside, the room was warm and slow and a little gold and soft.

She wrapped both cold hands around the rough cup and just sat.

The clock ticked on, and a low radio played a soft, slow song.

Two young friends spoke low over an empty plate near the wall.

An old man read his paper at the next table, calm and slow.

He did not look at her, and she did not feel strange now.

She was just one more warm body in a small, warm room.

For a little while, the unknown street felt like a place she knew.

She drank slow until the cup was empty and her hands were warm.

She folded the thin napkin once and slid it into her coat pocket.

She stood up, put the chair back soft, and went to the counter.

"Thanks. That was really good," she said, and her voice didn't shake.

The woman looked up and gave her one more slow, warm nod.

"Come back when you're cold outside," she said, and smiled.

She pushed the blue door open, and the thin bell rang once more.

The cold gray street was still waiting, wet and quiet and long.

She pulled her thin coat closed and stepped out into the rain.

But her hands were warm now, and she wasn't cold to the bone.

She still did not know this street, and no one knew her name.

But one small cafe now knew that she would come back again.

In her pocket, the thin napkin was still a little wet with rain.

The round soft letters waited there, warm and ready for the next cold day.