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Getting out of the house for coffee may be one of the highlights of his week. It’s not a far walk, therefore good on his legs. It gets him fresh air, which is good for the mind. He gets some light socializing, which is good for his mental health.
This first year of discharge, retirement, hasn’t treated Alex Keller with the most open arms in the world. He is tired, exhausted. The most interesting parts of his week are getting a coffee and going to physical therapy. Being able to live off inheritance and government paychecks aren’t exactly an incentive to try for a new job. A tiny voice in his head tells him to try out therapy, find someone experienced enough to deal with the identity issues that come with years in the CIA, or in SAD, in SAC, whatever they decide to change the acronym to next.
They couldn’t deal with him. He couldn’t disclose these things. And to see a military therapist, a psychologist. They’d be too close to the things he’s seen, the things he has suffered, and the things he has done.
Losing his leg in an explosion may have gotten him out of the worst spot of his life, but the transition to being a civilian again isn’t faring much better for him.
Alex walks to the coffee shop. It’s a local place, family owned, and has been in business for the better part of thirty years, or so he has been told. He finds it cozy, with its display case of baked goods, the smell of coffee always permeating the air. The tables and the few booths pull it together the most. The seats are cushioned with cute patterns of pastel flowers or autumn leaves, and the chairs never hurt his back. Depending on the season, they have centerpieces on the indoor tables. Pumpkins for autumn, little pine trees in the winter, vases of daisies in the spring, and faux sunflowers in the summer. The employees are always friendly, and he always does his best to be just as polite back. It’s refreshing to feel normal, even if it is only for a little while, if it is only for short bursts of time.
The shop is busy today. The booths are full, a line of people stand at their single register, and the tables amongst the rest of the room are full. He surveys the people. Mothers and their children, couples, and people opting to work on their laptops. He silently hopes someone will let up their seat sooner rather than later.
Alex steps into line, waiting patiently for his turn to order. He reaches the front of the line with no issue and places his order. He tries something new as often as possible to give himself something new to look forward to every day, but familiarity and routine has his heart for the moment. A cup of black coffee and a butter croissant, simple and filling. When he's done, he tips and pays, waiting off to the side until he can pick his order up. Then, the search for a table begins.
Everywhere he looks, someone is taking up a seat for their breakfast or chatting away with their friends and partners. It's far too cold to sit outside. Snow covers the tabletops and the seats of the chairs. Besides, going home to eat breakfast makes the goal of sitting in a social environment, well, pointless?
He does another look about the room. Booths full, tables of four seated to capacity… A table by the window sticks out. It's a small table, two chairs on either side. A woman with a drink is seated there, with her back to the wall and window to her side. Her hair is pulled off into a braid that lays across her shoulder. She wears a soft winter coat around her shoulders and has her hands wrapped around her cup, keeping them warm. She watches the snow fall outside the window, dusting the vehicles settled in the parking spaces outside in a powder. To put it lightly, to put it simply, she looks pretty. Beautiful.
And, the chair across from her is empty.
Alex doesn't think much more about it. It would just be a few minutes to eat and drink if she doesn't mind him sitting there—it's a coffee shop after all. It's a social setting, this isn't unheard of. If she’s happy to talk, people often make friends this way, or at least learn more about their community and the people living in it. If she says no, he can walk home and keep warm with his drink and food.
He walks over to her table, giving her enough time to react to him approaching. “Sorry to bother you, is it alright if I sit here? The rest of the tables are full,”
She looks up from the window, getting a look at him before she replies. “... I don’t mind,”
“Thank you,” He pulls out the chair across from her, taking his seat and setting down his food and drink with a soft smile. “I’m Alex,”
She smiles, ever so slightly, back at him. “Farah,”
“It’s good to meet you, Farah,”
“It’s nice to meet you, too, Alex.”
His smile only fades so he can take a long drink of his coffee. The heat of the drink causes him to make an awkward grimace. Farah laughs at him, abrupt, but considerably soft to avoid disrupting the surrounding patrons. And he laughs with her—giggling at the misfortune of burning his mouth. Warmth bubbles up inside his chest as they begin to truly converse. This is good.
There are sparks of happiness in the civilian world still. Alex only needed to open his eyes to see it.