It’s cold and so we rush to find a place for a conversation neither of us wants to have.
It’s dim and dreary, like the approaching words, and there’s someone we know. Let’s keep looking.
Maybe a restaurant? Too formal.
How about that Mexican bistro? Too Mexican.
Hmmm, is this cafe new?
It’s name, charming and confectionary, is straight out of Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory and yes, they have coffee.
The lighting is calm and inviting, nostalgic almost, and I sense longing for when things were simple and sweet like the tiny frosted cupcakes lined up neatly in the display cases. As the only customers, we’re doted on and introduced to Belgian waffles, free refills and oh look, is that an apple tart?
We collapse on white painted chairs covered in brown cushions splattered with pink polka dots; it’s been a long few years. I expect an oompa loompa to pop out of the back and deliver a song. Would that even cheer me up?
We share a prosciutto and mushroom crepe, comfort food, although none arrives. Hurt and disillusionment are also on the menu.
I compliment the owner on the lovely atmosphere, perfect, for a conversation we didn’t want to have.