NO. 1
His holy grail is a short street just northeast of his small Copenhagen flat. The street is lined with bars and restaurants and shops, and in the evenings you can walk along and watch the people and talk with your own and order beers until you forget why you came there in the first place.
But he goes for Cafetería Las Valentinas.
The seats inside are light wood normally but this morning they are painted gold, the sun having just climbed its way over the building across the street. This morning is a good morning, and he can feel it.
“I don’t think I know your name,” he says to her. She is a new barista. She must be. He knows them all.
“Oh, I just moved here,” she says. “I’m Mili.”
“Moved from Argentina?”
She laughs, though he cannot tell if it is genuine. She probably hears it all the time. And she tells him yes, she’s from Buenos Aires.
“I used to live there,” he says. “Just about a year ago.”
“And you didn’t stay? You’re crazy. Every American I know stays in Buenos Aires.”
“I almost did, actually.”
“Because of a girl?”
It’s his turn to laugh. How could you tell, he says.
“What was her name?”
“Valentina.”
“I see why you like the coffee-shop so much,” she says, laughing. “I actually have a friend named Valentina. She moved here with me. She’s a new barista, too.”
“Oh, really?”
Valentina walks out from the back and the sunlight shatters. She runs up to him. Stops, abruptly. He puts his arms around her and looks at her, studying her face. He stops, hesitant. She kisses him. He holds her for a moment. Cries. Both of them, crying.
“Oh my god,” says the barista behind the counter.
After a moment Valentina loops her arm through his. The coffee-shop is golden again, and this time the light is rich and full. “Shall we?” he says, motioning to the door.
“Um,” says Valentina, “where to?”
“Anywhere.”
And the two of them walk arm-in-arm out onto the streets of Copenhagen until they melt into the gold light on the horizon. Then salty-cold water, tsunami, as the idea snaps shut and he drowns. Now he’s there again in front of the coffee-shop. His holy grail, if only for the stories he wishes it held.
But he goes for Cafetería Las Valentinas.
The seats inside are light wood normally but this morning they are painted gold, the sun having just climbed its way over the building across the street. This morning is a good morning, and he can feel it.
“I don’t think I know your name,” he says to her. She is a new barista. She must be. He knows them all.
“Oh, I just moved here,” she says. “I’m Mili.”
“Moved from Argentina?”
She laughs, though he cannot tell if it is genuine. She probably hears it all the time. And she tells him yes, she’s from Buenos Aires.
“I used to live there,” he says. “Just about a year ago.”
“And you didn’t stay? You’re crazy. Every American I know stays in Buenos Aires.”
“I almost did, actually.”
“Because of a girl?”
It’s his turn to laugh. How could you tell, he says.
“What was her name?”
“Valentina.”
“I see why you like the coffee-shop so much,” she says, laughing. “I actually have a friend named Valentina. She moved here with me. She’s a new barista, too.”
“Oh, really?”
Valentina walks out from the back and the sunlight shatters. She runs up to him. Stops, abruptly. He puts his arms around her and looks at her, studying her face. He stops, hesitant. She kisses him. He holds her for a moment. Cries. Both of them, crying.
“Oh my god,” says the barista behind the counter.
After a moment Valentina loops her arm through his. The coffee-shop is golden again, and this time the light is rich and full. “Shall we?” he says, motioning to the door.
“Um,” says Valentina, “where to?”
“Anywhere.”
And the two of them walk arm-in-arm out onto the streets of Copenhagen until they melt into the gold light on the horizon. Then salty-cold water, tsunami, as the idea snaps shut and he drowns. Now he’s there again in front of the coffee-shop. His holy grail, if only for the stories he wishes it held.