Page 9 of Summertime Friends

Six Summers Ago

I’m panting after walking around Lisbon for the past forty-five minutes. The triple digits of miles we’ve already put in thus far aren’t helping my legs on the hills that make up the city. For the first time, my legs burn. I figured that all the walking and time spent on the StairMaster this semester would have prepared me, but I was unfortunately wrong. And out of all the unsolicited advice people gave us for the trip, not one single person ever mentioned how hilly Portugal is.

I need a break and a coffee.

I reach the top of an incline on my way back to the hotel, remembering that there was a cute café close to where we were staying.

It wasn’t directly at the top, I think. I swear it was up here. Maybe it’s another block or two? I’m not positive, or good with directions, but I do know I have to head in this direction no matter what.

Across the street, I finally catch a glimpse of it. I sigh with relief.

Outside, there are six metal, small patio tables for two along the slant of the cobblestone road. In between the tables are off-white umbrellas that complement the pale pink building and painted tiles behind it, creating shade for the people sitting at the tables. It’s early, but without a cloud in the sky and the torrid heat wave, they are needed.

The table furthest to my right is an older couple. The gentleman’s attention is focused on his wife. Her skin is dark and wrinkled from age, and she’s squinting at the paper she reads aloudto him. With her nose in the paper, she fails to notice that he isn’t listening. He’s gazing at her with a smile, ear to giant ear, looking utterly captivated by her marvel.

I watch them for a few moments, making up a story about them in my head. One where love is more than enough and can span decades. Their type of love, if that’s what it is, is one you can’t decipher if it’s fifty years old or brand new. His countenance, though, tells you a million stories and ways he loves her.

Too bad love is a joke. Or at least it is for me.

I release the air I was holding in.

Discreetly, I take a photo of the couple on my Canon. Dropping the camera back into my bag, I hurry across the street and head into the shop.

At the front, I order a black coffee to-go.

“An American who doesn’t want an iced coffee?” She, too, must not be from here. There is no hint of a Portuguese accent, but her Boston one sticks out. “Impressive.” The barista eyes me as if I’m an anomaly.

“It could be a hundred degrees out—” as it is supposed to be today. “But I will always want a hot, black coffee.” I shrug casually, trying to pretend that I’m cool or something.

“My girl. Coffee is individually brewed. It’ll be five to ten minutes.”

I pay for the coffee before finding a seat at a table near the front. Pulling out my book, I set it on the table before me.

I haven’t had much time to read between school, work, and life this year. I brought four books with me for the trip. All of them have been sitting on my to-be-read shelf for too long, and I plan to finally read them this trip.

But I’m distracted.

The coffee shop is alive inside—a whole world of its own. It is vibrant and full of energy, bouncing from one patron to the next. I don’t close my book but use it as a facade as I relax into the chair and allow myself to absorb everything around me.

Maybe I won’t need this coffee, and this place will be my caffeine injection.

My eyes tour the shop. They make their rounds of the people, the vintage decor, and a hand-painted mural before they are met with a pair of blue-gray eyes. Eyes that remind me of the ocean before sunrise. The blue is there, calm, eager to reflect the sun that is about to cross the horizon. You see one color at one second before it fades or brightens to another. His eyes work precisely that way. Piercing me, so bright, but I can’t look away.

I take it back. Those eyes are like a buzz to the system.

Zooming out my gaze from its hyperfixation on his eyes, I take in the most attractive male I have ever seen. His short brown hair is unkempt but tamed. Long enough that you’d be able to run your hands through it, but short enough that it’s still professional. A cut jawline with a dusting of facial hair. His shoulders are broad, and there is little left to the imagination of the muscles that must be taut underneath his white button-down shirt.

I try to stop myself from memorizing all of him, capturing mental photos, when he catches me gawking.

The left side of his mouth lifts into a smug smile, making me fully aware that he knows exactly how attractive he is.

And his smile. Damn.

I bet I’m not the first girl this morning that he has found staring at him. . . and I won’t be the last.

He doesn’t break my stare. Something about him and the heat of his gaze causes a coating of sweat to appear on the back of my neck.

With impeccable grace, not breaking eye contact, he lifts his mug to his lips.

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