To Father, With Coffee

My father and I are like inconsistent beads on a thread attached by blood. You would hardly find any traces of him in me, except, probably for the love for food and coffee. Even though most of the time there’s a huge mileage of contradictions running among us, we’ve never really fought when we sit down to eat. It makes me go back to this quote that I had read, while entering one of the best coffee shops in CP, that food, perhaps, is symbolic of love when words are inadequate. I’m skeptical of it since neither of us can claim anything with each other, except probably for that Latte or dessert we ordered.

I’m sitting inside of this restaurant, Brioche Dorée, when I decide to give him a call. I look through my call logs to realize that this would probably be the first time that I can recall, that I would be giving him a call. I don’t know why I want him to sit with me and have a cup of coffee; even though I know by the time we check out, we would have fought enough to not see each other for months to c            ome. I give him a call; he picks up, and waits with a condescending silence. I know I would have to drive this conversation if I want him to sit at this coffee shop with me, even if all we do is plainly ignore each other.

To say I was stoked to know that he agreed to come would be an understatement. I order something sweet, since I’ve lost my appetite. This place really did have Best Dessert Shop In Cp to keep me waiting for him. I think about what exactly I would say to him. Or if I do not say something to him and let him speak his mind. I keep running in circles, and eventually finish the food. Even though I wanted to meet him, we both knew that the last time we had fought we weren’t really in a place to have something with each other. Food was one thing that bound us. And, as unappreciative we had been to each other, we knew not to let that one last divulgence among us be eaten away by our own selves. So, we decided to meet at the Brioche Doree Café in CP.  

He enters the coffee shop with a knowing look; he doesn’t have to search for me. He takes a seat across me and directly opens the menu. He flips through the pages with a beautifully carved Brioche Doree Cafe on it. He sifts through pages, his eyes leaving burning traces each time he tries to look up. He knows I am looking at him. He can sense my discomfort, but I know he’ll do nothing to calm my nerves. He orders a coffee and shifts his gaze outside the window of this coffee shop. I can’t help but smile. There is something eccentrically calming about the both of us sitting like this. Neither of us speaks a word to each other. Our gazes meet when we realized we had ordered the same coffee. I look at him. Probably the longest I have ever scrutinized the crinkles near his eyes or how his nose scrunches when he takes in the first sip.

 

I realize how close we were to each other, yet seemingly distant whenever either of us tried to cut across our silence. Not a single word is spoken. I think we didn’t really have it in us to fight today. We finish our coffee and head out of Brioche Doree café. He is about to get himself lost in the swarm of crowds outside this coffee shop; when I decide to call out to him. I am pretty sure I saw a small smile erupt on his face when I wished him a Happy Father’s Day.