Bittersweet
The coffee shop didn't smell right any more. The once bold scent that used to permeate the cafe seems to have been replaced with a heavy bitterness that permeates every corner, every cup. It brings a saline taste to his mouth, simply by inhaling the fumes, as though the ocean wishes to crawl into his lungs, drowning him.
It never tastes right, either. The mouthfuls he tries to choke down all taste burnt and empty, as though the barista, cute little scamp with more piercings and more hipster dressed than he normally preferred, had removed any and all coffee from the drink, leaving only the bitter husks and tap water to boil in the pot.
He had watched the shops young man brew before, trying to delve into the differences between this shop and his lo…HIS. He had watched the steps a thousand times before, without a need to watch or listen for queues. The tempo of this home morning ritual he knew by heart, that he had interrupted with naked kisses and flirtatious teasing, so familiar, was so different with this young man's awkward jolting. The steps may be the same, the ingredients, the methods, but there was something different between them.
Maybe it was the kisses and pillow talk that changed the flavor, a meeting of gentle, cherished lips, followed by a soft "Morning breath, Jack. Go brush", a brush of skin, the taste of mint, morning grope-age if he were lucky. If he were the same person he once was he would be tempted to see if he could achieve the same results with the young man currently accepting his fiver.
Maybe it was the smell. His flat tended to smell faintly of a soft musk, like stained oak wood, subtle and dark and almost alive. It was warm with the fabric of suits left set over the chair or, if he had a say, tossed about in an exclamation of joy. The ties and shirts held the scent best…HAD held the scent best, before. His attempt to keep that smell of "Home" had lasted three months before the stale air that he had trapped in the house finally gave way to the scent of the neighbors flower bed. Oh, how he had wanted to trample those flowers.
At one point in his despair afterwards, he had tried to go cold turkey. He switched to the national beverage of choice, learning to brew tea. Two days into it, he burnt his hand imagining the expression his beloved would have had. When he had gone into work the next day, no one commented on the tap water in his coffee mug. It had taken him months to try coffee again.
It tastes bitter now. Like regret, like sorrow must taste. It burns like words unsaid, covered in the salt of tears shed into shirts that no longer smell of home. Hugging the cup to his chest, this last connection, crying his loss under long drawn breaths, a broken whisper escapes for the millionth time. "Ianto".