Another round of Sunday Photo Fiction, a bit late this time, and also a little longer. Unlike my protagonist, I have no issue with pretentious sugary coffee, and am seriously craving one after writing this piece. If you’d like to write a 150-200 word story of your own based on the photo prompt, click the link and you’ll find Al’s instructions.
Only a quarter of my coffee remains, but it doesn’t mean anything. These syrupy froths go down quick, there’s still time for me to stare out of the rain-flecked window, still time for me to be out of the cold. I’m not going to keep checking the time. I’ll leave when it feels right.
People complain about winter, but it’s the inevitability of autumn that I hate. When the short nights are here, you’re used to them. When they’re getting shorter, you feel cheated. The fall fanatics can keep their pretty dying leaves and their sugary spiced lattes. I’ll sit here and reminisce about summer.
It was good this year. I met someone.
“I love autumn,” he told me. Foam was spilling out over the top of his Starbucks mug. I’d ordered the same coffee as him, maybe as a last ditch attempt to pretend we had something in common. “Everything starts to change. And change can be something that we need, sometimes.”
Most of his drink is still left on the table next to me. It’s growing more tepid by the second, and the cream is starting to look more like scum. Time does terrible things to people and coffee alike.