The Bitter Black Coffee by Ivanna Samoylenko

I almost lost her
small figure in the bustling afternoon crowd of the café. The café was, apparently, the only place where you could keep from the freezing wintry wind.
She always drank her coffee black. Apparently, she didn’t like to conceal the bitterness with frothy milk or caramel syrup. It was impossible to discern her age – she could be one of the stressed university students, or – an exhausted young mother who came to the café to make room for herself. Perhaps, she was only a teenager who was waiting to be approached by her weekly one true love. Or, an engrossed young writer, who came here to collect pieces of conversations into her scrapbook. She looked too fragile for her weary thoughts. Her face was compelling in its combination of fresh, childlike features and the expressions of a mature, considerate older woman.
Her eyes lit up with naive energy, giving off a reckless impression. And yet, they were framed with a permanent frown, a tense forehead wrinkle. The girl seemed to be constantly battling her own thoughts. She was so engrossed in this inner conflict that she seemed unapproachable, hostile, even. I never once saw her being approached by any of the shallow, flamboyant students. It could be that the weight of her thoughts that repelled them – surely it wasn’t the rather charming appearance. I wouldn’t say she was pretty in the common understanding of the word. Taking her picture for a glossy magazine would be useless – she had one of those live faces, which constantly changed expression. At times she was taken over by tenderness and delicacy, and in a second her face would become serious and tense, captured by anxious thoughts. Her beauty was dynamical. Every day I saw her differently.
Sometimes, I hated her. I hated her for her constant movement, her unrest. Did she have to be this way? I didn’t like the way she looked: her outfit made her figure appear awkward and her hair was messy. In those days, I wished she would be more like the other girls in the cafe – dolly, flirty and put-together. Unlike her, they always had on an effortless smile. I hated the way she pursed her lips when she didn`t approve the taste of her coffee or the look of the man from a neighboring table. On these days, I felt like I could never understand her. And then I always felt bad for being so hard on her, even in my thoughts.
On other days, I was proud of her. I was captivated by her strength: she held her head high, even when the girls were mocking her. Her world was evidently different from their identically charming. And yet, she wasn`t stale. Once, I saw her crying when reading an enormous book. She was aloof and proud, which showed in her smooth, aware and confident movements. I smiled at her, and she smiled back, her eyes wrinkling.
“Your espresso, miss”, - the barista called. Disrupted from my thoughts, I took my eyes of my reflection in the fogged-up window and went to pick up my order.