The Second Café

We meet every fortnight—
you with your coffee,
and me with my tea.

The conversation arrives
before the cups do,
wandering wherever it pleases—
people,
memories,
the state of the world,
the absurdity of growing older,
and always,
always,
laughter.

Thirty years
sit quietly between us,
never asking to be noticed.
Neither of us
has anything to prove.

We listen.
We wonder.
We laugh often.
The hours pass
without either of us
trying to hold them still.

It is an ordinary thing,
two women
sharing a table by the window.

Except ordinary things
are so often
where grace decides to live.

This week,
I didn’t come.

A body worn thin
by pain and exhaustion
asked more of me
than I had left to give.

By the time I woke,
the day had already folded in on itself.

Later,
I learned
you had looked for me.

At our usual café.

Then another.

You called.
You messaged.
You wondered whether I had taken ill.

When I finally heard your voice,
I couldn’t speak at first.
The tears arrived before the words.

Not because I had missed coffee.

But because,
for one quiet,
extraordinary moment,
I knew what it felt like
to be worth looking for.