Art by: Clara Guinevere Tejada & Kim Jhazrel De Mesa
The wind chimes announce her arrival. Hair plastered upon the sides of her face while sweat traces her forehead like constellations. Her eyes dart across my face, trying to take a good look at me, and huffs before taking her seat. Not the first time she ran to catch me, and certainly not the last. Cold drops from her carefully whisked matcha latte soothe her shaking hands. She takes a sip, admiring how nicely I wrap around her arm, while her heart matches my pace.
Across her sits a man with his bag unopened, crumpled pieces of paper revealing the chaos and panic within. A cup of cold brewed coffee sits upon the wooden table, scent lingering in the air like heavy incense. He does not look up to greet her. These are two different kinds of calm found within the same earth-toned walls and warm glowing chandeliers. Pages flip, though slightly out of sync, while bossa nova music swells in the background. I stand still, though I am never meant to stay frozen.
Why coffee? She wonders, pondering the question in between careful sips of her aromatic green tea. The smoothness of the foam softens the bitterness on her tongue, yet nothing comes out. Swirling the cup mindlessly, a scene is recreated—soft clouds of milk giving way for the calm forest underneath. Her wrist flicks in small loops upon her notebook in smaller and smaller letters. Active recall she says, when she can’t even read what she wrote.
Why matcha? He stares back at his reflections, peering from the nearly melted ice cubes sitting on his watered down drink. He enjoys the sweetness from the coffee grounds that only comes from long periods of steeping in cool water, like tiny stones below a rushing river. He is in no rush to complete his reviewers; the results only get better with pressure he says. His glasses reflect his phone, stuck in an endless loop of videos while he mindlessly stirs his cup.
“Coffee?” He asks, not to anyone in particular, not even the lady sitting in front of him.
“Matcha?” She replies in kind, a silent subtle dare to the purist man sitting across the wall of textbooks and unsaid arguments.
So they each look back down on their pages, absorbed in their own little world. Perhaps, there is no truce between these two. The debate has to wait for another day, because right now there is a greater challenge ahead and I am their only and remaining ally.