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All my mornings seem to start out the same. Get ready, grab laptop, and we set up shop at the coffee place down the street. The place I reside is remote from most, a short walk is what bridges me with the red of civilization. It's short, almost bittersweet, the walk from my home to the small shop. I walk in, looking at the menu out of habit, even though I'd order the same thing as I have for the past month. But something in me felt different, a small part wanted a change, so instead i ordered something new, the music beating their melodies into my ears as I picked up my drink and headed to my usual table in the back.
Everyone around these parts knew I sat alone, never with friends, family, nor strangers, I was always simply that, alone. But I could see a shadow of a man behind my screen, taking the seat across from me.
He must have been new to town, or a tourist. I place my coffee back down and look across, words about to spill some remark of how he shouldn't be there, then I got a good look at him.
No, it couldn't have been, could it? He looked just like James, the one man I still held questions and regrets for, but that couldn't have been right, he's been dead since 2010, that's almost eight years ago.
I decided to risk it by asking, “are you James Overton?”
He simply nods, a faint smile implementing itself onto his features.
I smile back, confused, but intrigued. “So, um, did you enjoy your time in Virginia? Before you passed I mean.”
He thinks on it for a moment before responding, I can see he's trying to choose his words carefully. “Of course I did, I saw my children, got to spend time with them, before my lungs gave out, I'd say it was pretty nice.”
Breaking the ice seems easy enough, but that one question just wouldn't come out, my heart pushing back that burning question.
“Why did you take us in? You had enough money to live comfortably alone, so why help us?”
“I was good friends with your mother, and you and your siblings felt like kids of my own, helping you guys out was the least I could have done during the time.”
His words were too sweet, it seemed to fuel the anger that I thought had long gone out. “Then why couldn't you just quit? You had all the resources and support necessary to give up your smoking addiction, yet there you were, smoking off years and years of your life till there was none left to smoke away.”
“For the same reason you won't quit yours.”
My heart skips a bit. “I don't have a smoking addiction.”
“I know you don't, I'm talking about your caffeine one.”
“My addiction isn't nearly as bad as yours.”
“You can overdose on caffeine just as easily as smoking can burn a hole in your lungs.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“It’s not that you can't quit, it's that you won't.”
The words seep in, I don't bother to object.
“You're right, but why didn't you want to quit?”
“Well, why don't you?”
My inner walls break down and I snap, asking the question I wish I had when the chance was given.
“Are you proud of me?”
It’s so sudden, so roughly transitioned into the conversation, he seems to stop for a moment.
“Proud of you? Why wouldn't I be proud of you?”
“What's there to be proud of? I live alone, write books for a living, have anxiety and depression and I can't even do public speaking! How is this bundle of nervous systems worth something as admiration, as pride?”
The answer seemed to flow easily from him. “My time here is limited, but I am proud of you and always will be proud of you. I mean just look at how far you've gotten, that's an accomplishment in itself and I'm proud of you for making it this far!”
I don't even notice the tears are falling from me until I see them drip onto my keyboard. “Will you wait for me?”
He smiles faintly, that I can see through my blurred vision. “I will always be waiting for you.”
Whatever logic was left in me had ceased, jumping out of my seat to hug him, but soon as I'm up the world around me vanished. My shoulder is being shaken by the barista, telling me it's closing time. I look up to see my screen is blank and the man I was talking to is gone.
I remember bursting into tears as I packed my bags, knowing that the conversation wasn't meant to happen, that even now I still know I can't cope.
I still haven't moved on, but God do I wish I could.