{ So I took this picture while I was Luzern, noticing a couple eating and laughing at the edge of the lake. It was such a private moment that I didn't want to intrude so I quickly took the picture and left, without thinking much about it. I found it again while scrolling through my camera roll and this story kept circulating through my mind. I couldn't escape the story, of those 2 people sitting by Lake Luzern at sunset, so deep in the night, I began writing. I had no idea where the story was going, what was happening, or the plot. All I knew is that it was a story about a couple having a cute little picnic by the lake at twilight. So, this is the result of that. Please be kind and give credit where it's due. Let's keep the Internet as a friendly place. }
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The Coffee Date
My mind is swirling, drowning in the depths of my thoughts, restless as the waves, constantly rising and crashing. After seven excruciating, torturously, and unbearably long months, I’m finally here. I’m thinking of a million things at once, exerting difficulty to reign my emotions and silence my ardent feelings, yet I’m barely able to utter a comprehensible syllable at the ticket officer as I hand him my ticket. His tongue sharply pronounced every consonant and languidly brushed over the vowels, his inflection leading me to presume that he asked me a question. Unable to understand German, I timidly reply with Luzern, and he nods once and tears my ticket, and gestures towards a long corridor. The events leading up to the present are a blur, blending together into a single string of occurrences that somehow led up to this moment. The chances of my being here are outrageously slim, particularly when I recall of how my trip came to be.
I remember meeting him during my family’s visit to Switzerland. We had spontaneously decided to visit the city of Luzern, and zipping through the thin streets, I somehow ended beside him, colliding furiously into him, sending the tray on the ground. The tray that he balanced so sinuously on his arm tumbled on the cobble sending plates, cutlery, and pastries to the ground in an unfortunate instance, like futile trajectory. I could feel my eyes widening, the embarrassment manifesting in my flustered cheeks, my shaky hands, and the sweat building on my brow. A flustered sensation trickled down my spine, prompting me to suddenly scramble to gather the items and place them back on the tray. All this time, I had not locked eyes with the stranger.
“I’m so sorry” was all I could muster, repeating over again, wondering if he could hear my barely audible apologies. He muttered angrily under his breath, his inhales crisp and jagged, as if he was cursing extensively. His tone was metallic and low, his frustration rising, evident in the way his voice became more pronounced. I finally looked at him and I expected narrowed slits, furrowed eyebrows, and an expression mirroring exasperation and irritation. He continued to mumble irately until he locked gazes and he immediately stopped speaking. Perplexed, I stared at him, wondering why the breath in his lungs left his frame, peering at me with intense curiosity and a hint of passionate longing. His eyes searched my face, taking in all my features. Realizing that his decorum escaped him, he blinked nervously, dropping his head as he slowly retrieved the cutlery. A feeling was rising in my chest, a throbbing building in my heart. A heat swept over me, leaving my mouth parched and finding the need to gulp incessantly, though I was not thirsty. “I’m so sorry,” I said to him, hearing the shakiness in my voice.
I could see the wrinkles under his eye bunch, hinting at a meager smile. “It’s alright,” he told me, his voice low and deep, a comfort resting between us. “I was a bit clumsy.” He looked at me, his grin having a strange effect on my heartbeat. A pulse surged through my veins, invigorating my senses.
“I didn’t mean to bump into you.” I could hear my voice faltering, wondering why I had struggled to exchange a couple of words with a Swiss boy. He arranged the items on his tray and stood up, his stature pronounced. I took the sight before me: brown tresses lazily coiffed to one side, deep navy eyes, its hue rivaling the lake yet warm and inviting, and a tall build, his shoulders well-defined. His lustrous eyes scanned my silhouette, his chivalry betraying him. I was overcome with an inexplicable desire to touch him, a strange sensation of intimacy hovering between us, between two strangers in a street. My heart began to throb, the vibrations inside my chest surely audible to all the passersby in the street. I quickly straightened my jacket and left, without uttering a single word, feeling utterly stupid and behaving like a moron. More importantly, I struggled to explain these rising emotions, these sensations in my heart, my chest…They were entirely foreign, and yet, its pleasant arrival made me wonder—
I quickly shook the idea out of my mind, continuing on the avenue, walking towards something so that I could escape the recent events. It must have been only a few paces (I had clearly underestimated my pace) when I heard trotting behind me, hoping, praying, that it wasn’t him. Whoever he was.
“Wait!” I heard him call out to him. That same spark of electricity coursed through me, my pulse quickening at the sound of his voice. “Can I buy you a coffee?” he asked me.
His incredulous inquiry was so far beyond my expectations that I was temporarily frozen, unable to discern if this was real or if I was painfully pranked. His expectant expression was very real, but all I could manage was to let out an involuntarily scoff.
“Why?” I asked him, utterly curious yet completely mesmerized. “Shouldn’t I offer to buy you something, since I was the one who bumped into you?”
The corner of his lips curved just a little, just enough to send my heart in a frenzy. “Perhaps,” he began, finally hearing the slight German precision in his pronunciation. “But now thanks to you, I have an early break. It would be rude of me not to thank you.”
I studied for a few moments, pondering why his glassy eyes grazed over mine with an unfathomable yearning, and why my heart leapt so vigorously when he smiled slightly.
“No.”
He immediately manifested profound disappointment. He thought for a moment, the gears in his head turning. “May I ask why?”
I cocked one eyebrow. “I don’t let strangers buy me coffee.”
His smile widened as he extended his hand. “Dominik.” The second I firmly grasped his palm in response, a strange sensation brewed in my hands, frightened by the intensity of the novel feeling. More than that, I was scared of admitting that something was happening, something that outside my control, and I had no say in the matter. But I’m not going to say anything.
We entered the confiserie and uttering a few phrases to the woman at the front, he lead me to table near the window. He implored me to take a seat, as he’ll return with that coffee he owed me. I slowly took off my jacket, wondering how in the world I managed to find myself in a pastry shop in Luzern with a man that I did not know. He returned shortly with two coffees. He placed them on the table but did not place it in front of me.
“There is a tax,” he said, his voice dipping sinuously low that it was perilously husky, “for the coffee.”
I shook my head, pursing my head. “What is it?”
His smile exposed his perfectly lined teeth. “Your name.”
“Blair.”
He presented the coffee to me, nodding his head as he gazed at me with a slight smirk and playful glint in his eyes. But I wasn’t sure if it wasn’t from the bright reflection from the window.
We spent the entire afternoon talking, discussing subjects ranging from film preferences, aspirations, and excerpts of our personal lives. I found out that he is a student at the University of Luzern, that he works at the konditorei to earn extra cash despite the fact that he has a scholarship, and that he is a natural citizen of Switzerland. I told him that I was in Switzerland on extended stay due to my father’s business and the expression in his eyes appeared to be pleasantly surprised. When he asked me how long I would be staying in Switzerland, I replied by telling him four months. I would be lying if I didn’t say that I wasn’t happy by this interesting development. We continued talking throughout the afternoon, covering various topics with unprecedented ease, that I found myself slowly relaxing, my posture calm and my composure rested. Whenever he laughed, I suddenly wanted to stay, never leaving the café, and hearing how his frame rumbles whenever he chuckles heartily. Our conversation ended when an older gentleman with tanned skin and white hair approached Dominik, his pitch and his words even. Dominik stole a few glances at me while the man was confronting me, nodding in understanding. He came back and the sadness in his voice was evident as he said, “I have to go back to work now…” His voice trailed off and his glare was intense, peering directly at me.
“Oh.”
An uncomfortable silence blanketed the air, not out of distress, but rather out of apprehension. Would I ever see him again? Will I ever talk to him again? Why did I even care?
I heard the sharp breath he drew in. “Blair, can I see you again?” I looked at him, incredulous, resisting the urge to smile at him. Of course you can, I wanted to tell him, but I didn’t want to appear too eager.
“How about I bump into you tomorrow, at the same time?” I quipped, my humor masking my delight.
He flashed his pearlescent grin at me. “I’ll be waiting for you, then,” he said, his voice soft and silky.
And that’s how it began.
At first, it was the “occasional” meeting in front of his café, where I could meet with him and steal him away for a couple of hours, all while he was working and tending to other tables, but I could still see him, and see the way the wrinkles under his eyes would crinkle whenever he would sneak a sly grin my way. Once his co-workers understood that a mysterious young woman met with him almost every day, there were snickers and jokes, with slight jests, so he coyly asked for my number one evening, while we were walking along the lake. He was slightly nervous and told me that people at his work know that I’m coming to see almost every single day and he didn’t want that to be the only time we talked or saw each other. I gave him the number I used while I was in Switzerland and from there, it blossomed into meeting at different locations, exploring new places, showing undiscovered parts of Luzern not typically visited by tourists, and he eventually showed me his apartment at the university. We grown close during my time in Switzerland; we exchanged personal stories, our aspirations, goals we plan to accomplish, places we have visited, silly moments that we experienced, and various other things that people usually discuss.
It wasn’t the stories he told me, the experiences he shared with me, or the many trials he’s gone through; it was the way he looked at me whenever he would disclose anything personal. It was one evening (usually when he would get off at work), without anything particularly distinctive about it, but I can distinctly recall that he shared something very personal with me, and I remember how his voice dipped, revealing a shaky vulnerability in his pitch while maintaining a softness that caused the hairs on the back of neck to stand up. There would be moments when his voice got husky and raspy, peaking sensuality without exuding much effort. His eyes would be kind and inviting, yet not allowing himself to intrude. The glassy reflections of the stars in his eyes produced a mesmerizing effect on me, gazing deeply and intently at him without recognizing the effect I had on him. He would fidget with his fingers, needing to do something while he discussed something troubling, and then he would stare at me with an unfathomable gaze, searching my face and grazing over my features. Smiling at the way I would lift my eyebrows or how my nose would crinkle at a disgusting fact he liberally shared with me, I often found myself wondering why he felt safe with me, why he wanted to spend all this time with someone he’s gotten to know over a span of a few months. All the shared looks, accidental grazing, miniscule touching, all the incalculable times my heart would race whenever he would gently place his hands on my shoulders in a comforting gesture, and all the times my temperature would spike whenever he was close to me produced a painful longing at a question I’ve been asking since the day I met him: what are we to each other? I know we’re good friends—he told me that he considers me very special to him—but I don’t think it can be said that it’s necessarily platonic. I notice the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention, as if I’m the ocean and he’s dying of thirst. All this time and we’ve never actually discussed the rather fascinating nature of our relationship.
So in the middle of his animated monologue, I interrupted him, my voice low and serious. “Dominik.” He stopped speaking immediately, casting a concerned yet intrigued glance. “Can I ask you something?” The use of his full name also motioned a serious tone to my query.
He nodded. “Of course,” he replied, all while shifting closer to me.
I gulped, painfully searching for ways to formulate my knotted thoughts into coherent questions.
“Can I ask you something first?” he asked me, breaking my inner monologue into sudden silence. I just stared at me, unable to speak. “Have you ever…” he paused, sending my thoughts into pandemonium, though I suspected that he was gathering his thoughts or finding how to express himself in English. “Experienced with someone? With a boy?”
Oh. “No, not really,” I replied without composing a sophisticated reply to cover my vertiginous thoughts.
He got closer, aware of the little space between us. “Neither have I.”
I tossed him a playful smirk. “I would hope so.”
His chest rumbled. “You understand what I’m saying.”
I think so, at least. And that was the end of the conversation.
When it was my last day in Switzerland, we met at the konditorei, appearing very solemn and noticeably sad. He recognized the look on my face immediately because when we sat down at the table, he asked me if something was wrong.
There was really no way of saying, so I just spat it out. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
It was difficult to ascertain the expression on his face. He direly attempted to plaster a blank expression, but underneath, it seemed as though he was punched in the gut, his face contorted slightly, a painful anguish plastered on his visage. He visibly winced, thought he appeared very still, almost immobile.
“Will you be coming back?” he asked me, his voice small and fragile.
“I don’t know,” I said quietly, my voice trailing in the distance.
He manifested profound disappointment, throwing a surreptitious glance of agony at the window. Moved by his frozen stature and inability to communicate, I gently placed my palm on his forearm. “We can keep in contact, okay?” I attempted to appear jovial, but even my plasticity did not fool me.
“It won’t be the same,” he whispered so quietly, I wondered if it meant to reach my ears.
“It’s better than nothing, isn’t it?” A visceral desire washed over me, prompting a sudden need to wrap him in my arms, tell him that I don’t want to part from him, and that I would do everything in my power to stay here, to see the smile on his face, the expression on his face when his eyes light up, and how he can calm my inner qualms at his tender embrace. But I couldn’t.
It was a bitter farewell. We stood slightly afar, maintaining a sense of privacy without passersby feeling intrusive or stealing a private moment between the two of us. Without saying another word to each other, we wrapped each other in a tight embrace, his cologne lingering on my coat. We remained intertwined for the longest time, yet time was not enough for this private moment. Escaping the warmth of his chest, I pulled away, staring deeply in his vivid blue eyes, taking my last glance of his dark locks, prominent features, and tall stature. He placed his palm on my cheek, quivering at the contact of my hot skin. He eventually tore his hand from my cheek and I walked in the opposite direction, hearing a whispered three-letter phrase escape his lips, but I couldn’t be sure. Making my way to my family’s apartment one last time before driving to the airport, I wondered if I heard correctly or if my yearning heart conjured those coveted words to soothe my pain. It didn’t and I spent the whole voyage back home wondering if Dominik uttered the words I’ve been waiting to hear or if it was the figment of my imagination, concocted at the aching separation of someone whose feelings will never be revealed.
It would make a forty-five minute train ride difficult, for one very obvious reason: I have no idea where I stand with him, regardless of how much time has passed by, the many Skype calls and videos, the handwritten letters we’ve transmitted, and the occasional phone call. I have yet to know if he harbors strictly platonic feelings though seeking companionship, or if it’s something much deeper, so profound that it is difficult to express in words…Yet, attempting wouldn’t hurt. I tried looking out the window, gazing at the mountain peaks, watching the white-covered summits whiz by, enraptured by the clear blue sky, and offering solace to ever engaged mind, but it was to no avail. I hadn’t told him of my plans—that I was visiting Luzern—or even that I was back in the country. He knows absolutely nothing other than the fact that it’s going to be a normal day. So he thinks. According to his unsuspecting mind, he would leave work and send me a quick message about his day, what am I doing, and other words left unsaid.
The moment when I arrive at the train station, my stomach is in knots, I felt nauseous, inclining to vomit yet not quite queasy, and I could sense my knees buckling. I fetched my small luggage and left the building, feeling the blast of the wind as familiar as the embrace of an old friend. Suddenly, all the streets, all the corridors, all the pathways came rushing back, the map etching itself in my mind, clearer as I continue down the street, crossing the bridge and making my way to my favorite konditorei.
I silently pondered the possibility of him foiling my plan by the meager prospect of he knowing somehow. I did not suspect it, yet his astute observation was not in my favor. I recalled how I was in my flat while proceeding to tell him that I’m in Europe again, for quite some time I added generously. I immediately grabbed my phone out of my pocket and scrolled through the conversation, hoping I didn’t reveal any clues or accidently reveal my plan.
“Hey, what are you doing?” he asked me, ending with a smiling emoticon. How facetious.
I told him that I’m in my flat packing my things for a little getaway. That might have spoiled the whole thing. I’m going to Lisbon and then to Algarve with my flat mates.
An ellipse bubble appeared, waiting for him to transfer his thoughts onto text on a screen. “I didn’t know you’re going to Portugal. Isn’t that far away?”
Oh, that’s right, was my immediate thought, I must not have mentioned I’m on an exchange.
“It’s only a few hours by plane,” I replied, keeping it light and innocent. I skimmed over the rest of the conversation and found no evidence that would make him think otherwise. Yet, I was plagued with the haunting suspicion that somehow, Dominik knew, and my surprise would be ruined. As I zigzagged through the streets, my blood pressure rose, along with my anxiety and palpable wariness. When I got to the café, I looked for Dominik inside, upstairs, outside, but I couldn’t find him. With my poor German, I inquired a woman working behind the counter if she knew where Dominik was, but she shook her head in rapid German, telling me that she did not know. Keeping my head low, I fought the lump forming in the back of my throat, my eyes burning hot with anger and disappointment. A warm tear trickled down my cheek, livid that Dominik was not there, that I came all this way for nothing, that I didn’t tell him of my arrival, and that I would never get the chance to tell him how I feel.
Feeling incredibly stupid, I trudged through the streets, lugging my suitcase behind, abhorring every time the wheels clicked on the cobble. I managed to keep my composure, my face still as stone, my eyes straight, and my expression even; nonetheless, my heart was pounding heavily in my chest, my vision suddenly grew blurry, and my breathing became uneven. I avoided my reflection because the depth of repulsion I held for myself was beyond loathing. It was an acrimonious revulsion, one that compelled me to sit alone on the bench, overlooking the lake, breathing in an air of disappointment.
The only sensation pulsing through my veins was the bitter impression of betrayal. I pressed my palms against my face, desperately wishing I was back in Lisbon, with my mates, or soaking my feet in the warm waters at Algarve, but I wasn’t, and I absolutely loathed myself for it. I could have told him, I could have said something, I could have done something differently. My mind concocted multiple reasons, but none justified the remorse and misery that plunged deep within me.
I was prepared to leave, to return to the train station and by a one-way ticket back to Zurich, when I was puzzled at the ruffling sounds erupting behind me. It sounded like someone rummaging through a plastic bag, but I was so focused on how I could get home as fast as possible that I tuned it out. I fixated all my mental energy on how quickly I can slip out of this city unnoticed. Pretty fast, actually, I told myself somberly. Sighing deeply and despondently, I placed one hand on the luggage, prepared to run despite the fact that I was suddenly fatigued, responding languidly. I got up and languorously made my way towards the train station.
“No, wait, where are you going?” a voice called out behind me, his voice shrill with urgency.
I whirled around and recognized the figure standing before me. His eyes still as deep, his hair still as dark and thick, and his stature strong, firm, yet soft. But he looked different, somehow. He no longer wore a clean-cut visage; his scruff grew out to an attractive beard, little hair flecks reflecting ember in the evening sun. His eyes met mine with eager happiness, yet I could not escape the possibility that the intensity in his gaze rooted deeper than my probable departure. A carnal arousal burning behind those languid blues, contrasting the softness of his features, as sculpted since the last time I saw him.
Our exchange was not anything I expected it to be. I was waiting for him to approach me, embrace me with a tantalizing longing that could never be fulfilled, and smile amiably, knowing that it would never be. All those times, it was a composition that I was accustomed; it explained why I wanted to get closer to him, despite the strange distance lingering between us. Nothing went like I anticipated. I searched his face for all those familiar expression, but the one he was wearing was a new one, one I haven’t seen before.
“Well, I didn’t find you…” I began, probing why I owed him an explanation, gutted when the thought entered my mind.
“I didn’t know you were here,” he replied immediately, his voice sharp, appearing angry somehow. “And are you still going to leave?” I dropped my gaze, unable to look at him. I couldn’t answer his question. “Were you planning on leaving without dropping by, without…seeing me…?” His pitch fluctuated, revealing his vulnerability in a fresh light.
“That was before you showed up,” I retorted.
“When did you get in?”
“Twenty minutes ago.” Give or take.
“Please don’t go.” I finally lifted my head when I heard the slight crack at the end. My heart broke when I perceived the shattered gaze on his usually constructed visage. I was perplexed at his strange behavior. Why was he acting this way?
I sighed, unsure what to respond. Of course I plan to stay now that you’re here is what I really wanted to tell him, but instead, I clutched tighter on the handle of my luggage until my knuckles turned white.
“Why won’t you answer me?” He was angry. His eyebrows knitted together furiously as he took several steps closer, erasing the distance between us.
“Why are you angry at me?” I asked him.
I expected him to give me a loaded answer, copious with various reasons why, all invariably stupid, but I never expected him to do what happened next. I would hope (and often daydream), but I never thought it would actually happen.
He parted his lips and I heard the ragged breath he drew in, hearing the uncertainly as the air filled his lungs. He gently put what I now noticed is a small Coop bag on the ground. He placed both his hands on my face and I felt as if I was set on fire. I gulped loudly, abruptly forgetting how to breathe or how my lungs were supposed to work.
“Blair,” he started, pronouncing my name liquidly, peering deeply in my eyes, and noticing my own reflection in his reverent eyes. “I want you to stay.”
“Yes, I know,” I whimpered, disappointed at his answer. I forged all attempts to express my feelings, and opted for a plastic smile with sadness in my heart and fresh tears brimming my eyes.
“No,” he said quietly, “I don’t think you know.” He pulled me close, our noses touching with mere centimeters from my lips. Then, slowly with daring enthusiasm, he pressed his lips on mine, feeling my heart soar. Our lips parted after a few seconds and he wrapped me tightly in his arms, never wanting to leave his embrace. He brought his lips to my ear and I heard him whisper the same words when we said goodbye. Only this time, I didn’t wonder if I heard correctly or whether my imagination resulted in an incredulous fabrication.
I smiled, feeling my cheeks blaze, the blood surging through my veins as lightning. “Me too,” I told him.
I glanced at him, wanting to drown in those deep blue eyes. His eyes twinkled in the twilight, his smile too big for his face. He kissed me again, experiencing his elation at his contact.
“I brought you something to eat,” he told me.
I tossed one perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “What did you get?”
“All your favorites.” He was right: he purchased orange-flavored chocolate wafers, fizzy orange Fanta, a baguette with assorted cheeses, roasted peanuts, and other pieces of sustenance that I briefly mentioned in passing. He tenderly held my hand, leading me to the water’s edge and we sat by the lake, laughing, eating, and talking. I noticed glances he threw at me when I appeared unsuspecting, peering curiously yet adoringly, prompting me continue my ruse, permitting him to gaze at me with the same degree of intensity.
“Did you know I was coming?” I asked him before taking a bite out of the bread.
He shook his head. “Not immediately…” he paused, wondering if he should share the thought that flashed across his face. “But I hoped you would.”
“You did?”
He nodded smoothly. “I knew you were in Europe, so I hoped…that perhaps…you would make your way over here at some point…” His transparency was irrevocably attractive. “When I came back and Frieda told me some girl came in looking for me…I couldn’t help but aspire that it was you.” He halted, lifting a hand to stroke the back of my palm. He leaned closer and placed another kiss on my unsuspecting lips.
“And now, here I am…” I tossed him a playful smirk, a mischievous glint reflecting in his glassy eyes.
We continued eating and conversing with the same level of ease as before, prior to the drastic turn of our relationship. However, my inquisitive mind was just as erect, and so, without shame, I formulate my next inquiry with smooth precision.
“So, Dom, would you ever want to visit Leeds?”
He gave me a relaxed smile. “Of course I would. The question is, would I be welcome?” I gave him a flat expression. “So, there you go.”
We continued into the evening, until the stars twinkled celestially in the heavens and the illuminations reflected on the dark waters. The pulse of the city quickened and the bustling and chatter of folk buzzed zealously. He brought me closer, feeling the warmth radiate off his jacket.
“I’ve never seen Luzern at night,” I admitted, enchanted by the beauty that nightlife promised.
“Want to explore?”
I replied with a gracious smile, and that’s precisely what we did.
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