THE COFFEE STAIN (Short)

Every day at exactly 11.00 am he would sit at the corner table of his favourite Irani Café and read the morning paper while sipping on a hot cup of coffee. It was a ritual he never missed for the past 40 years.

  The cup would stay idle, steam pouring out of it as if trying escape from something. Then his hand would come, firmly grasping the handle of the cup which would then go up to meet his lips.

  The first few sips are just for checking if the coffee is of the right temperature. If not, he will carefully place it on the table, leaving behind a stain which never is at the same place.

  At 12.30 pm he leaves the café, the newspaper carefully tucked under his right arm.

  After he has left, the cleaner comes up to clear his table, picks up the coffee cup and proceeds to clean the stain.

  It’s always that same spot, the same stain, thinks the cleaner as he wipes away all traces of the table being occupied before.

  However, getting rid of years and years worth of coffee stains is not easy, with many cleaners before him already having given up on cleaning it, and he too does the same.

  The next day he comes back at his usual time, only though this time, it’s not the warm cup of coffee or the waiter that greets him, but locked doors and a notice that says ‘Closed’.

  Others, who had come before him, were making their way back, mumbling about how this was bound to happen, the owner dead, no one to take over the business.

  Though he didn’t show it, but from the inside he was overcome by grief, as if a part connected to him was just broken off.

  As he made his way back home, wondering what he will do from now on, a familiar scent made him glance at the corner.

  He walked towards that scent, which started to grow stronger as he came nearer.

  The origin of the scent was from an old café that seemed totally out of place, in a locality surrounded by new and plush eateries.

  He stepped inside the café, which reminded him a lot about a similar one he had once visited with his dad, but was unable to recall when.

  Once inside, his sight went to the old man sitting the counter and towards the vintage radio that soothingly played music from an era gone by.

  He sat in the corner near to the counter and asked for a cup of coffee from the ageing waiter, who nodded and went inside the kitchen.

  The waiter came back with a cup that eerily resembled the one he used to drink from at the Irani Café. He brushed off the thought admitting that it was just his mind playing tricks on him.

  After he was done, he got up, made his payment and left, while the waiter went over to clean the table, unaware that the coffee stain he left behind will never be erased.

THE END