The first time I met Paul was in London. I’m not sure, whether it was right after I arrived at King’s Cross that we ran into each other. I remember those days having a fling with Prêt à Manger, so I may have been slightly oblivious to Paul’s dark beauty. I believe, I did not really notice him, until walking through the City, where I saw him just around the corner of St Paul’s. What’s in a name.
I remember Paul looked very polished and chique to me that day, his baguettes and croissants beautifully displayed on wooden shelves behind the counter. Nothing like the slightly impoverished state I found him in, when I encountered him last week in Brussels, close to Parc metro station. Yet, I decided to pay him a visit.
Paul received me with all égards, serving me his café in an elegant cup, beautifully curved towards the edge, some warm milk, like I asked him, and a petit-chou placed on the saucer, slightly sweet, even better when dipped into the coffee. He had forgotten, I do not really have a sweet tooth, that I prefer a little dark chocolate. But even if I had somehow hoped, he would have remembered, I did not blame him. It had been years. And what did I actually know about him? To me, he was just Paul, always around, everywhere, always ready to serve me.
Paul and I lost touch, I was living far away from him. Paul did not like coming up north, and I started going with Starbucks instead. Even if Starbucks couldn’t satisfy my coffee needs–he would always give me these huge ungainly mugs, and if I didn’t stop him, he would add all kinds of syrups and spices too–his tea was okay, and I loved his honey. But even more than that, I loved his openness, the world becoming my oyster. When I visited Starbucks, I started dreaming of New York, and Hollywood and all my American dreams coming true. Starbucks encouraged me to get myself a fancy notebook, start writing my ideas down, the steps I could take towards them, for them to become true some day.
I’m not sure how Starbucks and I fell out. Maybe it was his unimaginative way of dressing, the turtleneck, always the same colour, his bald head. He did not really care about the efforts I made to look beautiful and elegant. It is your inner beauty that is important to me, he would tell me, your intellect. And he couldn’t dance, he wouldn’t even try.
Seeing Paul again, after so many years, made me feel at home, understood in some way. Yet, I longed for something more, to excite me, turn my world upside down and everything I had made myself to believe. Maybe some day, I would meet a Gregory, a Costa, or a Mikel. Until then, I would make my own coffee, in an elegant cup, with a little dark chocolate on the saucer.
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