Short Story: Steamed Milk

She hadn’t been there before.

The must and age hung heavy in the air, flickering the lights and dampening conversations. It smelled like a grandfather’s pocket watch — something classic and wise and steady. Aromas of biscotti and creamed milk whispered upwards from behind the bar, sounds of air and metal and grinders and beeps added a mechanical edge. Two young men spoke urgently in the corner by the large plant, their lattes long gone, one gesturing emphatically as the other shook his head, rubbing steadily on a shirt button. An older woman, dark curly hair loosely pulled back under a red knit cap, sipped a cup of tea and read a newspaper, of all things: her teapot steaming and intricately decorated with florals and greens and blues. She wondered briefly what it would be like to be at peace with a newspaper and a mug of tea — that level of contentment felt achingly far away at the moment.

She took a tentative step forward, behind the man with the long, grey hair, and scanned the chalkboard. She settled on a small coffee and blueberry muffin, unoriginal and entirely predictable she realized, but her palms were starting to sweat and the thought of making a more creative decision overwhelmed her. Arlo, the person with the nice eyes and fast espresso hands, seemed to sense her unease. They smiled and handed her the coffee with a little nod, which she found equal parts reassuring and embarrassing — as if they knew something about her she didn’t.

A part of her felt dirty being here, surrounded by intellect and pure conversation and compostable napkins. Surely her reason for meeting him was beneath all of this, something darker and primal and impure. The white lattes and intricate tea cups contrasted her intention so brightly that it caught in her throat, seeping into her sinuses and behind her eyes. She breathed deeply as she stirred cream into the porcelain mug, counting backwards from seven like her father taught her. By the time she got to one, her breathing had slowed and her hands were steady: she was now present enough to feel the heat of the coffee stimulating her fingertips, almost seductively. She looked up towards the room with her blueberry muffin in hand, scanning faces and eyes — waiting for a nod or a pause or a moment of recognition that would initiate her first step forward. It came sooner than she expected.

It was the flick of the eyebrows that caught her, the slight widening of the eyes. They were grey and deep and rich and knowing. Knowing of something more real than most — a powerful inner truth. He sat by the fireplace, back to the wall, a dark blue button up rolled casually to his elbows. Light brown hair in loose waves matched the color of the drink in his hand, held loosely for warmth. There was an air of ease about him, a relentless calm, that she initially found unsettling, but later would come to rely on.

It was in this moment — when their eyes met for the first time, across the room and conversations and half-eaten croissants and varieties of steamed milk, that she was presented with a fundamental, morally-altering choice. She didn’t realize it at the time: years later, after everything happened and the pleasure and the trauma had faded into the fabric of herself, she would be able to trace it all back to these few seconds. She would think: had I only been stronger and wiser and older… but never could quite finish the sentence. Perhaps, she thought eventually, it would have turned out the same, one way or the other.

When their eyes met, the man with the loose brown hair smiled and gestured towards the table. She smiled back, willing herself to hold his gaze a moment longer, leaning into the budding tension. She glanced down at her brown heeled boots, encouraging them to move steadily and confidently, and pleaded with them not to trip. It felt like ages to make it across the room: the patrons conversed in slow motion and vowels turned thick and rolled into the air like thunder. Eventually, she found herself across from him, forced a nervous smile she hoped read as confident, and set down her coffee and muffin. Hi, he said, still smiling. Hey, she said back, and sat down.

They didn’t shake hands. The electricity was too strong.

A long moment passed as they looked at one another: curious, inspecting, wondering: is this really it, are you worthy of this? They sat that way, buzzing after each other, for a full minute. Her nerves finally broke the silence.

Cozy in here.

Yea, my mom used to take me here when I was a kid. Been around for ages. The personal note took her by surprise — she didn’t think that was part of the deal.

A long pause.

How are you? she asked, partly because it seemed like the polite thing to say and partly because she was genuinely curious, with everything going on.

The corners of his mouth twitched in a half-smile. I’m good — been better, been worse. You?

Anxious, honestly.

I get it. At least you got the blueberry muffin, I hear it’s magical. He was trying.

She sipped her coffee and studied him. There was something both effortless and forceful about him and the dichotomy intrigued her. She liked him more than she thought she would: the thought creeping into the corner of her mind like a shadow, a warning, don’t go there. Too much familiarity could ruin it. His eyes narrowed, seemingly picking up on her inner dialogue. She felt exposed suddenly, vulnerable, as if she had been caught looking too closely at herself. She pushed the thought away and dug her heels into the wood floor.

So, what do you think? Are you open to it? His directness caught her off guard. She forced herself to finish chewing slowly, wiping her mouth with the aforementioned compostable napkin. Looking up, she stared intimately back at him: Yes, she said simply.

His eyes focused at that, unblinking, satisfied. When would you like to start?

This was the moment she had been dreading — the question she had run through her head thousands of times, the answer which she had perfected in bathroom mirrors and train cars and early morning dreams, rehearsing to such an extent that it almost felt foreign now. It wasn’t like her, to be this bold this quickly — she wore it like a costume, pleading with it to somehow transform her whole being into something more daring and darker and richer. It hadn’t yet, but she had learned to wear it with a certain level of faux confidence that felt a few inches closer to her center.

She took a deep breath, slowly sipped her coffee, stared back at him, and leaned forward. How about now?

She almost missed it: the imperceptible twitch of his mouth, the quick blink of his eyes, the tensing of his fingers around the coffee cup — so subtle was his surprise that she thought for a moment she was being played. His breathing stayed even. He was good.

He leaned back and studied her for a long moment, taking her in, not bothering to hide his interest. She willed herself to stay still beneath the grey heat of his eyes. Okay, he said cooly, Let’s go.

She smiled. It worked.

Let’s go, she said back, the relief lightening her tone. They stood up simultaneously, leaving partial cups of coffee and a muffin wrapper alone on the table. As they walked through the coffee shop patrons, weaving in and out of tables and laptops and faces, he grabbed her hand. It was warm and strong and sent an unexpected jolt through her entire left arm. She squeezed it back.

As they exited, she could have sworn she saw Arlo nod at the two of them while pulling a double espresso — they knew.

They made it out into the cold winter air, high-altitude sunshine streaming on their faces. I’m this way, she said, and pulled him to the east.

Her exhilaration was palpable as they walked briskly down the concrete sidewalk. She had never had a relationship like this before.

Afterwards, she never would again.