chapter one:

‘Why am I here?’

chapter two:

I've stopped. The addiction, craving, euphoric fervor I once felt has all but vanished. Occasionally, my senses will be faced with a dark roast from Ethiopia or perhaps an Egyptian blend - and they will fight, leeching at my subconscious will, my stubborn resistance.

‘No’, I tell myself, ‘I can't’, and although I so forcefully reject my aromatic first love, it must listen. I must listen. Tempting, it really is, the forbidden allure of my own Nabokov nymphet, my Arabica Espresso, my Lolita.

chapter three:

The coffee sits hot between my palms, in a porcelain cup, unsympathetic of the debilitating hate I feel towards the saccharine, nostalgic, beautiful taste. It's far too close, too hot, for any comfort — and yet, I stare into the depths, immaculate with the embellished portrait of a flower stained onto the surface. It's a tulip.

chapter four:

Once, the fringed tulip was a favorite of mine. I had picked a bouquet of the perennial flower for a certain flame, only for him to leave to another boy he found much more "wholesome" within a few days. ‘Was I not "wholesome" enough, Walker? This ceramic mug holds more meaning in its silent, insincere apologies than yours ever did.’

chapter five:

I feel myself wavering. Only seventeen minutes have passed, shaky and uneasy, in this place I've forsaken.

‘Should I leave? Is it worth it to stay? To feel my hands tremble in helpless apprehension — to have my mind stimulated by the aroma of a Montague's poison, one for his love? I hope so.’ And so, I continue to sit within the quaint cafe of east sixth street, the coffee hot between my palms, waiting.

chapter six:

Soft lavender cologne appears, distinct among the cacophony of caramel lattes and cinnamon mochas, thirty-six minutes late. He's here. And as he calmly, so unapologetically, seats himself across from me, coffee in hand - my unfettered dread drips away, as always. And so I take a sip, for him.

‘That's why I'm here.’