Blueberry Muffins

It was a Thursday and the old man stared daggers into the paper cup sitting before him. In black sharpie it read ‘Harold’ in jagged, uneven letters.

Four cozy walls of the small café shielded its patrons from the howling blizzard outside, offering warm lighting, a faux fireplace for ambiance, and endless coffee that filled the place with its pleasant aroma. Live, Laugh, Love, & Drink Coffee was printed in neat cursive above the door. It was the kind of place you could take your kids to after a fun snow day, or the perfect setting for a first date. Its clientele were dispersed about, an assortment of individuals seeking sanctuary in its inviting depths.

A pair of older gentleman occupied the overstuffed armchairs by the fireplace, enthusiastically debating about something in a different language as they wielded tiny cups of espresso. A woman chatted on her phone by the large front window, gently trying to persuade the tiny dog in her purse to accept a bit of scone. Nearby, two children in matching pink coats chased each other with chocolate doughnuts clenched in their fists. Their mother sat with a girlfriend, keeping a casual eye on them as she sipped a steaming latte.

It was a familiar place. Harold had been visiting it every day for the past few years, usually in the mornings when his energy was at its highest and the pain in his knee hadn’t kicked in yet. At sixty-seven, tiredness was creeping up on him earlier and earlier. At 7:15am his choice was usually a coffee and muffin - blueberry was his favorite but they only made them on Tuesdays and Thursdays - and sometimes he would throw in a cookie if he was feeling adventurous.

The staff was different each day but as it was a pleasant, laid-back shop the turnover was relatively infrequent and Harold soon worked out a rough schedule.

On weekends a pair of guileless high-school girls named Sarah and Danielle ran the counter and helped to make coffee. Their nails were always painted different colors and their hairstyles changed on a seemingly weekly basis; they even brought in their own sparkly markers to write customer’s names on their cups. He liked them well enough although they tended to chat loudly about their intimate relationships which got a little embarrassing at times.

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays had Chester and Scott working. They were roommates in college with approximately a hundred and fifty pounds between them both. Being avid gamers they were constantly discussing the intricacies of what they were currently playing. Harold once heard Scott say “Yeah man remember last night when we got level-six ganked like, so hard, but then I finally built Warmogs and then we just destroyed our lane?!” upon which Chester made a high pitched noise that sounded somewhat like ‘Yee man!’ and they both high-fived. As far as Harold was concerned they had just spoken fluent Chinese and he wasn’t even going to ask.

They also smelled often of cannabis and pretty much everyone, even the shop familiars like Harold, knew they were stoners. Their fun personalities and sweet natures made it easy to overlook though and many times they had given him free coffee for ‘just bein’ super cool and stuff.’

Tuesdays and Thursdays were his favorite days though, because those were the days when Olivia worked.

Olivia was a middle-aged single mother with a pretty face and a laugh that could light a candle. Her quick wit and harmless jabs made them instant friends from the moment he bought his first cup. His first visit to the shop was a little unnerving as it was busy, and he had been gruff in ordering his coffee. She had given him a sassy look, put a hand on her hip and declared, “you want fries with that shake, honey?” in an accent that Harold would never forget. He had cracked a smile and her resulting laugh had picked his sagging spirit off the ground, brushed it off, and given it a hug. She wrote his name in beautiful, elegant cursive on the side of his cup and that was that.

During each Tuesday and Thursday after that he only had to walk into the shop before Olivia would smile, wave him to his seat, and bring his coffee to him so he could avoid the lines. Once he realized she was the only one who made blueberry muffins, he ordered them twice a week.

As the days passed they shared more and more of their lives with each other. He knew that she was struggling with her youngest son’s mental illness and she knew the sad tale of how his knee was injured. Harold found himself going to bed on Monday and Wednesday nights looking forward to the next morning, an old man enjoying the simple pleasure of talking with a lovely friend.

Now, sitting in his favorite booth by the side window, he was fuming. His cup sat on the scrubbed table like a lame dog refusing to cooperate. Nothing was particularly wrong with the coffee, exactly; it was a generic dark roast sugarcoated with an eccentric name to make it sound more interesting, Twilight Blend, and had his usual packet of raw sugar sprinkled in.

Anger and confusion stormed within him as he eyed the innocent object. His name was scrawled on the side in unfamiliar, informal chicken scratch. He wanted to take it back and have his name written like it was supposed to, in flowing script that made him look special. That wouldn’t work though, because Olivia wasn’t there.

She had quit.

Harold wanted to smash his fists into the table. They had been friends for almost four years, had shared vulnerable parts of themselves with each other and now she chooses to leave without saying anything? He could hardly bear it. Everything was wrong. There weren’t even any blueberry muffins.

Before he knew it he found himself getting up and moving to the counter. Only a few people were in the shop and there wasn’t a line. A tired looking kid Harold didn’t recognize was wiping the counter half-heartedly as he approached. His nametag read ‘Stuart’.

“Hey!” Harold said loudly, smacking his palm on the glass countertop. It made the boy jump near clean out of his pants. “Who’s going to make the blueberry muffins?”

The boy blanched and looked around as if searching for help. He was alone.

“Wh-what?”

Harold sighed, running his hand over his face in frustration.

“The blueberry muffins. Olivia is the only one who makes them and she works – used to work – every Tuesday and Thursday. It’s Thursday today and she’s not here, so who’s going to make them?”

He couldn’t keep his voice from rising. The few patrons of the shop looked up questioningly.

“I’m sorry sir, I-I don’t - ”

“Just tell me!”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” another worker he didn’t know came out of the back room and eyed him warily. Harold couldn’t believe it. He was being kicked out of the shop he had come to for years, like some kind of rowdy teenager or aggressive homeless person. Huffing, he left the café, abandoning his coffee on the table.

Each day he returned, hoping to see Olivia. Each day he was disappointed. She had left like a breath, quickly and silently, and Harold didn’t know how to handle it. He kept hoping she would show up and apologize; her hair would be nice as usual and she would laugh that laugh of hers that sounded like bells chiming and all would be forgiven. It would be like some silly romantic-comedy where everything seems so hopeless but at the last moment it all comes together. The guy gets the girl and everyone gets a happy ending, all that.

But as the days passed he realized that was never going to happen. He watched people go in and out of the café, some coming back another day, some leaving forever. The knowledge that sometimes people show up in your life, serve you coffee, and then disappear was a bitter cup indeed.

Then one day, a new girl arrived. She wore a clean white apron and had a nametag that read ‘Judy.’ She spied the unhappy man in the booth and disappeared into the kitchen. After a while she came out with a muffin on a plate and walked it over to him.

He looked up in surprise as she set it down in front of him, as it he couldn’t quite believe it.

“I haven’t mastered pastries yet but I hear my raspberry muffins are quite tasty,” she said sweetly.