Honey Latte

Tired wooden stairs spiral below me as I lug my backpack full of Aquinas, C.S. Lewis, and Virgil onto my back. Two blocks and I’m on the narrow and straight Main Street that welcomed me when I nervously arrived in late August. I wave at a girl with brown, uneven bangs who I met in Ethics class and a couple I sat next to at church two Sundays ago. Air that smells like powdered sugar and sun-soaked bricks surrounds me. As I walk towards the Cafe I am hugged by oaks heavy with crisp leaves, ready to fall. I open the door and adjust my eyes to the dark room. A long table covered with laptops and textbooks surrounded by chatting students makes up the center of the room. I head to the counter and order whatever the barista recommends (a honey latte). Around a corner there are two rooms with more sparse seating and sturdier chairs that ensure those dedicated to getting work done in the Cafe a chance at productivity. I go to the final room behind these two where I meet Ezra and Phil. I find they are also both drinking honey lattes and we begin discuss our most recent argument sparked by a question posed in yesterday’s Theology lecture. Ezra sides with our professor’s theory while Phil, relentless, swears his answer is backed by the chapter I was supposed to read last night. I chuckle and begin to open my indigo notebook where I’ve documented their arguments and, perhaps less importantly, whose answer has been proven truth by our professor and his research. The sun has set and we talk about whatever comes to mind, the lack of food in my fridge, our favorite parts of Town, and Phil’s new pipe. This is how I have spent two nights this week and the hazy rhythm of the Town has quieted many of the worries I had about being so far from the house I grew up in.

The Saturday morning market fills up an empty parking lot with vendors where I walk along the rows alone and pick up dessert to bring over to dinner tonight. At 7:08 p.m. I am at the Williams’ door and it feels like Thanksgiving with my cousins. Daisy, who just learned to walk, sits on my lap on the cool white porch outside where I talk with Dale and Bridget about the cities they grew up in, the colors they have dyed their hair, and the day they met in college. These and other stories show me a part of this family I never would have suspected when I met them in the grocery store along with their two teenagers, a toddler, and a seven month old girl all dressed in their church clothes. They had helped me find a spicy curry to add to chicken for a date I had early in the semester (the night went okay but I felt like I was putting in all the effort and not getting much in return). I tell them about this and they laugh and I do too. Sylvia puts her curly blonde hair in a bun while she talks about a boy she’s never seen at church before that she met at her new job and says she has convinced herself she is going to ask him on a date. Jess teases her and she runs after him and around the corner but I can already hear their laughter again. Dale asks me about what I’m learning, if I’ve heard his favorite band’s new album, and where I see myself after I graduate while the sun sets across the small tangerine house perched at the end of their street.

“Amen”. The congregation begins to buzz with held back conversation as fold-up chairs scrape the dusty floors. I am patted on the back and greeted by Nehemiah and Grace. I shake hands with the tan James who looks a little choked by the top button on his blue and red striped shirt tucked evenly into his khaki slacks. On my way out the Heralds’ holler at me and remind me of the enormous weeping willow in front of a brick home with green eaves to make sure I find their house. The sharp leaves of the willow brush my cheek as I walk up to the dark green door. Seated along a dark cherry bench with several other friends and acquaintances from my classes and church I eat the final bits of my now-cold pot pie. Mr. Herald talks about a quote he found interesting by an author I read in my History class and reads it to us from a dense, tan book lain out in submission on the cream tablecloth. We chat about this and our conversation leads back to the message of the sermon today (to be a believer who doesn’t consort with other believers but instead consorts with unbelievers without sharing their beliefs put on the greatest façade of all, deceiving themselves and others). Mrs. Herald refills our empty coffee cups and,

after apologizing she doesn’t know how to make the Cafe’s well-loved honey latte, asks if any of us are considering engagement. I almost laugh but am interrupted first by dreamy-eyed Mark who talks about red-haired Ruth and asking his father for his grandmother’s old wedding ring. Next Phil confesses his intent to be married to Martha by Spring and how he is sure he’ll be able to support them after he finishes his internship and goes to work for the Heralds’ son. He talks about putting a down payment on a one bedroom house near downtown and painting it emerald, Martha’s favorite color. I add cream to my coffee and look at the Herald’s tabby cat curled into a tight ball behind a fake ficus in the living room.

The dying expo marker squeaks with every new bullet point the professor writes. Scripture verses, personal views, and teachings from Socrates fill up the very-used white board. Next to me Luke scribbles quickly, jotting down every word like it’s divine. I find myself trying to absorb the professor’s lecture although my notebook is still in my backpack. “Your Town offers immense opportunity to anyone who subscribes to her. The welcoming congregation of our affiliated church will make any believer immediately feel at home. I don’t know how many of you read the Town’s newsletter but, along with a rave about our honey lattes, we have recently been named Vermont’s safest community! We place a lot of importance on this community and believe full-heartedly that anyone who commits to taking the correct life steps at our college and church will be happily supported and loved by their fellow people. To plant your roots in Town is to make a decision that will positively impact you and your offspring for many years to follow.” Twenty-three intense gazes are fixed on our professor but I notice the window the rain is slowly hitting. Speedy drops run diagonally down the glass pane as the wind picks up. I hear the faint scuffle of a class being let out across the hall and watch as students, their legs cut off by the bottom of the window, file past. A tall girl with ivory skin and a blue raincoat walks slower than a stocky boy wearing a black button-down. The professor goes on.

I smile when I get a text from Bridget that says Sylvia finally asked out Jeremy last week and she is very happy with her decision. The overcast sky is somehow comforting and I turn the corner to the Cafe. The volume of the room and the bitter smell of roasting coffee greets me as I walk towards the back room. Along the wall there are small tables with two large chairs to each table and I notice Sylvia’s curly hair in a ponytail sitting at one of them. She drinks mint tea and is chatting slowly to a skinny boy with freckles who laughs and smiles back. I smile and wave and but notice a group of boys, Sylvia’s age, raising their eyes at the two and whispering to each other. A pair of twin girls join in the conversation and shake their heads. I walk to the barista and try to decide if I should order a honey latte or try something different.