Espresso

"You're so jaded, Rick." She says. "You care about what everyone thinks of you but you won't let anyone get close to you." Her words resemble my subconscious truth. "You need to be vulnerable with me, Rick, how am I supposed to love a stranger?" I have no response. "Ok well, I'm going to leave then."

"No don't--" By the time I spoke, I had already felt the gust of wind from the slammed door hit my face. The wind was as cold as a December morning in Buffalo. It was September in Arizona. I had escaped to the dessert in hope of forgetting about the days of my youth back in New York. I really try not to think about it much. But since my girlfriend just dumped me, I figure some reflection would be therapeutic.

Her speech was both extremely accurate and unoriginal. Her words were meant to have an organic potency that only fumes from the depths of the heart, and yes, I do appreciate the kind advice of my lover, but oh have I sniffed that same smell. Whether it was 8 years ago with Brittany, 6 months ago with Bridget or today with Brielle, that smell has lingered for many days. This smell is the smell of espresso. My smell for a breakup. 

Espresso has long been an essential part of my morning ritual. I usually consume it after I finish my breakfast, around the time "Top 10 plays" comes onto ESPN. I sit and hope a play from the Bills game makes it on the list, but most of the time, I'm stuck watching a Patriots' player make it into the end zone. She was a Patriots fan; I was a Buffalo Bills fan.

"Patriots beat the Bills again!" She said as we met halfway down the hallway.

"Just wait until Week 14, they won't the Bills at home."

"Bills are worse at home than on the road!"

"Shut up, Mary." We lock lips and smile. She grabs my lower back, squeezes as hard as possible, and tries to throw me on the ground.  She barely moves me.

"Go down."

"No." She hits the back of my leg, and gets me on my knees. She then pushes me on my back and climbs on top of me.

"I told you to go down."

"Ok I'm down, congratulations, now let me up." She pushes my chest back down

"Oh no you're not getting up that easy." She begins to kiss me. We kiss for not even 5 seconds, before the roles are reversed, lips still locked.

"Hey you two!" I turn my head and see a man with a bad tie and even worse comb over making his way down the hall. I quickly dismount from Mary, grab her hand and run in the opposite direction of the man. We turn the nearest corner and hide in the crevasse in between the wood shop tool shed and the school's brick. This is our usual make-out spot, but today, Mary couldn't wait. 

The weeks carry on and soon enough it is our anniversary yet again. And though the day marks three years together, I still feel like the freshman in high school who smiled at her with a mouth full of braces. Our anniversary landed on a Sunday, and it just so happens that it was the same Sunday as the Patriots vs. Bills game. I bought tickets for both of us and we went to the game. Prior to the game we tailgated alongside fellow fans. Each man and woman was wearing at least five layers with the fifth being the layer of the snow on their head and shoulders. It was a cold, December day. 

After the game, Mary wouldn't shut up. "HA! Patriots are so much better than the Bills."

I look at her toughly and get into the car.  She sings, "I told you, I told you, I told you."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah I get it."

"Oh do you? Then I want to hear you say it."

"Say what?"

"That the Patriots are better than the Bills."

"No way."

"Yes way."

"Nope, not happening." She laughed. "Hey babe can you the thermos?" She grabs the thermos.

"What's in here?" she asks.

"Espresso."

"Espresso during a snow storm, you know me too well."

I smirked and looked are her. Our lips met. The car swerved.

"Rick!"

It was a cold December morning in Buffalo the day Mary died. I'll never forget the gust of wind that hit my face as the doctor announced that she had stopped breathing. It was the coldest chill that had ever hit me because the fire inside me had went out. She was gone. And as I stared at her mother and father hold each other's weeping bodies, I knew I had to be gone too.