If We Went To Coffee

If we went to coffee I would spend hours beforehand reciting every greeting to my mirror. I would paste on different faces, jutmyhandoutpullitbackoutbackoutback, question whether a hug was appropriate, roll my voice through the various octaves to see which one would probably break through the thick tension that would hang between us upon locking eyes on one another.

If we went to coffee, I would forget which routine I'd settled on and stammer through a "heyhowareyouhaventseenyouinsolongdoyouwannasitdown?" with an awkward hug in tow.

If we went to coffee, I would tell you about my life since we last spoke. I'd tell you about how I'd done in school and listen to you tell me how you'd done better. I'd tell you about my family and watch your interest fade. I would mention my plans for the summer. You would interrupt me.

I would ask if you noticed my red hair and wait for the eye roll which - yep, there it is. Right on time. You would mumble about how glad you were that wasn't your problem anymore.

I would stare out the window, at the floor, at the table beside us. You would sigh, run your hand through your hair a couple times, maybe even be so bold to glance at your watch. Silence would settle over us like an itchy blanket.

I would make up a doctors appointment; you would have to do some stuff for work.

Awkward hug.

You wouldn't hold the door for me.
I would laugh to myself.

If we went to coffee, nothing would be different. Nothing would have changed.

I know what would happen if we went to coffee.
So there's no use in going to coffee.