Hues of Love

Mocha

MOCHA

Marya had been working at the library for two months already before love turned to the color of mocha. It began with a wrinkled smile and suggestion from the librarian.

She had heeded the man's advice and visited the small local coffee shop. It's walls were the color of mocha. A small bell announced its presence, and she, its shadow, followed. A distinct voice greeted,

"Hello, wel- Oh. Hi."

There was a flip of the page and a kind of surprised glance. Marya walked over to discover the book he had borrowed that day,

"So this is how you do it," she laughed. The book was tucked next to the cash register he manned, "So you neglect your duties?"

"Not really, the money still hits the can. But this is the first time I've looked up today. Want something?"

That was how it began. Love changed entirely: it breathed a whole new scent, that of the aromatic smell of caffeine; it took on the mocha colored walls, which made it practically indistinguishable, but it was there, a sweet comfort; it tasted crème-like, with a slight twinge of bitterness that comes with maturity owned by the habit of drinking coffee; and it felt different, it was warm in her hands, like a glove of a warm cup of joe.

Marya frequented the cafe after that. Love bloomed between paper pages hidden at the register and coffee stains at one A.M. There was light talk, brushed upon like moth wings on lips.

Between a mix of scholarly talk among university students, their voices melded in. Marya did not feel her heart pound like a desperate caged bird. Instead, it was soothed like she was smothered in the warm feather-down blankets that Papa had taken with him.

Funny to find it again in a tiny cafe at the edge of campus.