el café es como el amor | [ángela orozco]



I haven’t given a shit since the day I found out that guilt is a mechanism for convivence. It must be why I haven’t pictured this scene for a while, in an attempt at escapism.

A film noir scene, a dark bar lit just enough to see the silhouette of the other patrons. There’s smoke in the air; you smell it, feel it through your nose and down your throat. You cough. It tastes bad. Your finger circles the rim of a half empty-glass; pinot grigio, because even in your surreal daydreams you’re a pussy who can’t take alcohol.

You give up. You go to the bar tender. Ask if he’s got coffee. He does. Decent guy, this bartender; not too rough, not staring and your boobs as if they were fresh candies out on display. Stares at your face, respect. This isn’t a real world, mind you. Remember this, or you’ll be forever stuck in Wonderland.


Remember this.


You succumb. You order a coffee. You always do.


They give you a cup. It says:

El café es como el amor.




Entonces, si esto fuera cierto, pues cada amor es dulce, bittersweet like néctar before it leaves, and the next thing you know you have an empty cup.


Sin embargo, el “como” es la única palabra de duda. Es una comparación, pero no es exactitud.


It’s snowing outside. Each snowflake sways downwards gently.


This is not a noir film. There are no sugar daddies, no Lana del Rey tendencies involved in this story, only smoky contemplations disguised as sage revelations and desire for adventure outside the mundane.


You are waiting for something. You’re not sure what.


It is here that you realize that there’s something a lot of women don’t understand about themselves. There’s a fear, I think. People only attack what they fear. In a men’s world, they crave a specific breed. It’s the lust, the need, the drive, the unexplainable will of the other.


Yet, women don’t come like that. They know that, right? No, listen. Why else would something be so angry as soon as something comes out the way they don’t want it to be? If nothing threatens you, then you don’t give a shit.

Know what I’m saying? Or do you too feel too lost in sub-consciousness to make sense out of an alternative interpretation of reality, a set-up a ridiculous as it pretends to be trivial?

I don’t know why I go back so much. It can’t be healthy. Although, to be fair, with all the people my age getting high and drunk I guess I need to find something to kill me slowly. Caffeine will have to do.

That’s when it hits me:

El café es como el amor.


Oh.
Oh.

You once told me during an argument that sometimes it’s hard to understand me sometimes because it feels like I speak in poems. I guess that’s fair, and the moral isn’t a breakup or anything dramatic like that. But I know I speak in riddles and rhymes, in abstractions and post-humanistic verses that can lead to various interpretations. What I’m saying is, that self-absorption must be natural, or unnatural because we refuse to acknowledge it as if we could determine nature for ourselves.


What I mean is—

What I mean is…

I still get lost in myself.
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