You broke my heart a year ago, and I still miss you.
You were the perfect coffee shop. Inside your tastefully painted and decorated walls were plentiful outlets, quiet music, friendly people, a picturesque view, a well-stocked book shelf, and comfortable booths. (Booths! Not chairs!) You were within walking distance, and you had the best lattes I have ever tasted. When customers asked, you talked about your special espresso. Now that I’ve tried the inferior lattes at a dozen other coffee shops, I believe you. That espresso was magic.
I really thought we had a good thing going. Most of all, I was incredibly excited for us to share Nanowrimo. I dreamed about all of the productive and caffeinated hours we would enjoy together.
And then, just a few days into our Nanowrimo adventure, you told me that we would have to spend some time apart. I was devastated, but you promised that the new people would be great and that the renovation would only take a week. I believed, and I waited for you. But a week went by, and then two weeks. I tried to call you, but no one answered. I left messages and never heard back.
Eventually I moved on, but no one could really replace you. I’ve had to settle for casual relationships with three different coffee shops. They try hard, but none are as wonderful as you.
It’s a year later, and a new Nanowrimo, and your dark storefront still tears at my heart whenever I pass it. Why can’t anyone else (preferably someone with a great deal of money to invest in the coffee business) see how wonderful you really are?
I suppose you’d say that we’ll always have our memories, and that’s true.
But what I really want, my dear lost Dolce Vita, is a quiet, empty booth and the perfect vanilla latte.
Yours in perpetual mourning,