The glass door chimed as a young woman in her mid-twenties entered the building. Dressed in a professional business suit and crisp pleated skirt, she strode confidently toward the register to place her order, her patent leather heels clacking all the way. “Venti nonfat latte with caramel glaze please, “ she ordered, her golden card glinting in the light as she handed it over in one fluid motion. She was a gold card member, I observed. Clearly she was a loyal customer. I too was, once. I used to love coffee, crave it like an addict anticipated his next hit. Those days were long over. I doubted I could ever appreciate coffee anymore.

She was pretty, I thought to myself. Her brown locks cascaded past her shoulder in waves streaked with a gold that mirrored that of her membership card. Her phone vibrated and she locked her gaze on it, frowning, and typed furiously in response. Her thumbs glided dexterously across the surface of her cell phone. Her long graceful fingers would prove useful in playing several instruments. She could be a pianist, I mused. I recalled the piano lessons I had suffered through in my youth. My parents believed that the ability to play a musical instrument was essential to success in life. Perhaps it was; however, piano was definitely not for me. Those endless exercises and scales tried my patience. Shaking my head as if the physical motion would direct my thoughts, I willed myself to forget those countless lessons. “Arch your fingers!” Madam Bodrov had barked frequently. She had been an unpleasant elderly women whom I would forever associate with the instrument. That, and the loud, angry sounds of arguing over my attempts at playing classical pieces are my memories of the instrument. No, piano was something I definitely did not miss from my past.

Maybe the coffeehouse woman was a guitarist. From the sentence I had heard her utter a few moments ago, I could imagine her having a lovely singing voice. All at once, I pictured the woman on a stool, singing a haunting tune in front of a small crowd as she skillfully picked the strings of a guitar and accompanied herself. Suddenly, her face morphed into that of another. Meg. Emotions flooded into me. I had long since forgotten that my first girlfriend was an aspiring musician who occasionally played at a local coffee shop when we were in high school. I used to accompany her to all her gigs, cheering loudly even though she clearly needed more practice. I remembered tossing her flowers after the lackluster applause as she concluded her set, my own screams and cheers making up for the lack of enthusiasm from the others. No matter how many times she messed up, she would never give up. That’s what I admired about her—Meg was not a quitter. She was fiercely determined and would let no obstacle stand in her way. She wanted to go to Nashville and become a country singer. Despite her parents’ obvious disapproval over her career choice, she was obstinate in her dreams. A few days after we had graduated, she simply disappeared, having run away to Nashville I assumed. I never heard from her again. Maybe I would see her sometime soon, I mused.

I turned my attention back to the woman at the counter, the sole patron of the store, and my only source of distraction from my thoughts. She had a slim athletic build and calves that communicated wordlessly that she was a runner. I adored running, once upon a time, and had been quite good at it too. The feeling of my feet pounding against the pavement and the strength I felt pushing against the wind resulted in an exhilarating feeling that I associated with being a runner. I had craved that rush back then, it motivated me to move faster, train harder, and run further distances day after day. All of a sudden, I was pulled into a memory so strong it was as if I had actually time traveled. It was a breezy day and I was surrounded by a mass of bodies. There was a sense of anticipation in the air, each of us filled with the same anxious anticipation. POP! a gunshot fired. All of us surged forward at once, the race had begun. Feet pounding against the road, we emerged as a sweaty mass of humans running toward the distant finish line. I noticed a slight woman of Asian descent who was a head shorter than me and about half my size. Gray streaked her hair, which was slicked back into a sleek ponytail that bounced along with her steps. She raced with a fierce determination that showed she believed she could accomplish anything, despite her small frame. To my left was a slightly overweight man, running with equal determination. Despite the fact that each of us came from different backgrounds and had different stories, we shared a common end goal. We were going to finish this race. Soon we were no longer all running beside each other as the pack separated, each of us running at different speeds.

A sense of sadness enveloped me as I reminisced about my running days combined with a sense of loss that I could never experience it again. “Nonfat latte with caramel glaze for Shelly!” announced the barista as he placed the woman’s drink on the counter. Shelly, I thought. Such a beautiful name. It reminded me of the ocean and days of my childhood when my parents took me to the beach and we collected sea shells. Pleasant memories of my parents were few and far between since they were almost always working. However, there were those rare weekends I treasured, when they packed up the minivan and set off to a small beach town. We had a rental house there, I remembered. Painted the lightest shade of coral, the house evoked only happy memories within. Sounds of seagulls in the distance and laughter rang throughout the home. In a way, the beach house was more of a home than my actual home, even though I spent about two weeks there total in my lifetime. That beach house contained the few instances of happiness I recall from my childhood.

By now Shelly had reached the counter where her drink awaited. She gracefully extended a slender arm to collect her drink, flashing a brilliant smile at the young barista as she thanked him. I listened closely to her voice this time. It was melodious and smooth, much like a properly made coffee. Despite all the time I spent at coffee shops, there was one person who made the best coffee. My wife, Anne. My head spun with freshly found memories, my brain rushing through them greedily and quickly, as if through a flip book. I had to concentrate hard to isolate them. Her tinkling laugh. Her fluffy blonde hair. Her crooked smile. All these memories arose seemingly out of nowhere and the emotions attached to them were powerful. I felt a physical ache inside the very core of my being, somewhere I had thought I was incapable of feeling anymore. This pain was unlike anything I had felt since the accident. It was so overwhelming, I had to scream. So I did.

I let it all out. Every feeling I had not felt in so long poured out in a single unearthly sound. I yelled until I could yell no longer. I felt this scream in my bones, and when I was finally done, I felt strangely satisfied. Then I recalled where I was, the coffee shop, the barista, Shelly. I looked up. No one had taken even the slightest notice. Shelly was gone, and so were all my feelings.

Great is the past, but still greater, from a reformed point of view, is the ability to move on. I came to the coffee shop day after day to try to forget my past. Sitting alone in my very own corner, I observe. Yet, almost every day I am reminded of it, be it through the smile of a child, the laughter between friends, or even a woman like Shelly. The irony was not lost on me. Nothing is so disheartening to the blank mind as a nice and vivid memory. Worse yet is my inability to be part of the current world.

How much more painful than death it is to reach for an intangible present! I am floating, bobbing along a sea of time with nothing to grasp: not the past, not the present, and surely not the future.