I hate clichés. I feel like that makes me sound like an asshole. I guess it does—but really I do. It’s so, so hard for me to open a book and finish it without rolling my eyes. You can guess how fun it is to go to the movies with me.

By the way—it isn’t.

Granted I take pride in the fact that I’m not one of those young, asshat, horn-rimmed wearing hipsters that so desperately need to have my opinions heard. No…I just, well—I hate clichés. Yet here I am, writing in a coffee shop. A starbucks no less. As much as I hate how lame that is, I really don’t care. The small tinkering of silver spoons and ice as they slam against the counter tops. The sound of the register clicking and singing its very happy tune of monetary gains. These things take me back. They help me forget that I’m a forty something year old man that sits here writing to someone who probably will never ever even see this. They make me feel young again. There’s something in the air at starbucks, and it makes me feel alive. I smiled at the irony of the last sentence I just wrote. After all, it wasn’t until I came here that I really knew what living even was. Twenty years ago we were just freshmen in college. You, a budding artist, whom I can swear always held a brush in her hand—regardless of where she was. And I, an undecided major that spent most of his time playing video games and Frisbee down by the lake. Life was ok—but I just drifted, alone and for the most part, scared of where the wind was going to take me. I didn’t have any goals, any ideas of what I wanted in my life. But I at least knew what I wanted to drink. “Hey man, what can I get for you?” The barista was a tall, blonde fellow with a piercing in his right ear. His eyes were dead, probably an expression of overworked fatigue. Either that or he was high. “Yeah let me get a Venti Double Chocolate Chip Crème Frappe.” I remember wishing someone made an abbreviation for this bullshit. I wondered if anyone actually said the word “Chocolaty” instead of chocolate, like they had it on the menu. His voice cut through my trance of thoughts. “Alright so that is one ‘Venti Double Chocolaty Chip Crème Frappe with soy’ right? Will that be anything else?” And that’s when it happened. My heart tensed up and time stopped with a terrible, screeching halt. “Soy”. I’m pretty sure I didn’t fucking order soy. But I hated correcting the barista’s. I don’t know why. I’ve seen bitches do it on the daily, granted—I know these guys are just doing their job but. I couldn’t. “No that’s good man.” “Cool, just slide your card when you’re ready.” The fucking shame. I walked over to the pickup line and waited with the rest of the energy deprived people, all too good for a nice cheap cup of dunkin. “Venti Double chocolaty chip crème Frappuccino!” The small, incredibly young, red-headed barista called it out with a hint of pride in her voice, and a smile on her face. She held it up like a holy grail for me to grab. Now that I think about it, I didn’t even want it—knowing there was some kind of not-milk bull shit in there. But I raised my hand up anyway.

Then you took it from me.

“Hey uh, that’s my drink.”

You turned around like a sun jumping from the horizon. Your confused, beautiful gaze hit my face and before a word came out of your mouth, that familiar—grating sound of a voice that was disappointed with his life cut through my thoughts again. It was the barista. “No bro, you guys ordered the same thing. Here’s yours.” You giggled your soft giggle. Your glasses slightly bouncing down the bridge of your nose as you did. It was hands down the cutest thing I have ever seen. Then you smiled at me and shrugged your shoulders—your slightly oversized sweater slid down to the side of your arm as you did. I needed to know you. I needed to have you.

Then the rest was history. We graduated. We got married. We loved eachother.

For fifteen years we visited the same starbucks every Sunday, with what little money we had in our pockets we ordered the same drink, time and time again. The “venti double chocolaty chip crème frappucinno”. I was never really confident to say “chocolaty”, but I learned to. I learned a lot of things living with you, having all those drinks with you. Loving you. Though you can never really expect something like cancer, can you.

I fucking hate clichés.

“Of course your wife would die of cancer. And you’re a writer! It’s just too funny!” 

You laughed when we got the news, coughing in between words. I didn’t laugh then. And then I never got the chance to laugh at one of your jokes ever again… “Hello? Are you getting your usual, sir?” That voice. It can’t be. I looked up, expecting to see that young barista that punched in our very first drinks. It wasn’t him. Of course it wasn’t, who am I kidding. “Sir?” “Shit son, give me one moment. Just let me..think.” I could hear the scoffing of the younger college girls behind me, the judgemental foot tappings of the Bluetooth wearing asshat behind them. Fuck, I really needed to order. But I can’t have that drink—not now. Not my first time back here.. A special today? “Uh yeah.. let me get um—a Caffè Vanilla Light Frappuccino..uh, with no fat milk.” Twenty years later and all the drinks still sound like they were chosen at random by a group of manatees in a think tank. I slid my card and walked over to the pickup line. And waited. Time flashed by as I was lost in thought—and I grabbed my drink without thinking, grabbed one of the “New Yorkers” on the stand, and sat down at our usual spot.

This isn’t my drink.

I turned over to the baristas and saw the same, red-headed girl, now a women, smiling back at me. She must have become some kind of, district manager. Her outfit was different. But the drink..the drink was familiar. God dammnit. She must have thought she was doing me a favor. She wasn’t.

I couldn’t help it. The tears burst through and I held onto my chest as it ached. I miss you so much. Our booth started to feel empty, and cold. I felt so small. So alone from the rest of the world. I put my head against the small table, not caring who was watching this forty year old man cry his heart out. Minutes passed and I pulled myself together. I looked at the drink, the sides of it now wet with a familiar dew. I pressed my lips against the familiar green straw…and drank.

“…chocolaty.”