I never liked coffee before.  I still don’t. But now I take refuge in its sweet yet bitter taste.
There’s a realness in how I simultaneously like and dislike every sip, but convince myself that
tomorrow the bitterness will diminish and only the sweet will remain, if even for one cup.  Or
one sip.  I sit in a room full of people.  But I am invisible.  Their conversations blend into one
continuous note, like the sound of rain made from a unison of individual drops but no single
drop is distinguishable from the steady flow of noise.  I speak only to order my coffee.  And
occasionally to say, ‘no thank you’.  Some days they notice I speak with an accent.  Some days,
they don’t.  Every day the old man by the window tells me it’s going to rain today, but it hasn’t
rained in weeks.  Perhaps he sees something the rest of us don’t.  Or perhaps he’s just a crazy
old man, playing tricks on strangers to make the days pass more quickly.  The lady who pours my
coffee once told me he met his wife in this very coffee shop, one rainy day, more than 30 years
ago.  And that this time last year she passed away.  He’s never been the same and he’s been
coming here every day since, telling people he’s waiting for it to rain so he can see her again. 
Most just think he’s a crazy old fool, lost in his own mind.  But I can see the heartache in his
eyes, even behind his smile.  Maybe that will be me one day, and people will think I’m just a
crazy old fool too.

These thoughts pass through my mind as I watch the people outside going about their day.  Every
one of them is at the centre of their own world and every one of them has their own dreams, goals,
triumphs, failures, joys and fears.  Every one of them has a story that is somehow unique to
anyone else’s.  But to me they are just people, passing by my window for just a second,
nothing more.

I look back through the rings traced around the inside of my cup to the shallow pool of cold coffee
that remains.  The bitterness is still there.  Maybe tomorrow it’ll taste different.  The street beyond
the layer of separation offered by a single pane of glass is filled with people hurriedly making their
way through the traffic to get home from work.  For the first time in weeks, it’s pouring and the
atmosphere here feels somehow different.  The old man who sits by the window isn’t there and a
small bunch of flowers rests on his seat.  As the lady pours my coffee, I ask her where the old man
is today.  She pauses for a moment, looking toward the chair and continues to tell me that the old man
passed away last night and that the flowers were those he’d left there himself yesterday.  I walk over to
see what is written on the tag attached to the flowers.  It simply reads ‘It’s going to rain today’.   

-RH