Writing Prompt: Day 35


Day 35 of 365 Days of Writing Prompts: Write about a life changing coffee shop experience.

Erin: “I’ll have a white mocha latté,” I instructed the barista.

“Name,” he asked as he picked up one of the cups for warm drinks.

“Torren,” I waited to see how she spelled it. She forgot one of the “R”s.

“5.78,” she instructed reaching for my card, I handed it over and she was swiping it before I knew it.

In five minutes my name was being called and my morning routine was coming to an end. Until something out of the ordinary happened.  When my hand connected with the coffee I was handed the liquid turned to ice. Judging by the wide eyes of the girl who had made it, this was also the first time she had witnessed the situation.

Shannon: “I’m sorry miss,” an older man interrupted me. “I know you’re reading, and I don’t mean to bug you, but this is the only open chair. Do you mind if I sit with you?”

“Of course not, go ahead,” I encouraged.

“Thank you,” he said genuinely as he put his cup down on the table so he could pull out his chair. “I’m Albert by the way.”

“Eleanor,” I added my introduction to his.

“Really,” his face lit up. “That was my wife’s name. What a happy coincidence.”

I nodded with a smile, “It was my grandma’s name too.”

“Well I have yet to meet a Eleanor I dislike,” he took a drink from his cup, “and I can’t image I have much time left to meet one that will prove me wrong.”

I always felt awkward when people talked about how they were running out of time. Partially because I never knew what to say, and partially because I liked to act like death was a surprise and not an inevitable end.  I shrugged. “You don’t know me that well yet,” I joked.

“I’m not too worried,” he shook his head. “I actually know more about you than you think. I’m sorry, but I don’t know the proper way to bring this up, but is your name Eleanor Walker?”

I nodded, suddenly scared.

“I believe I’m your grandfather,” he revealed.

I never met the man, because based on what I was told he’d left my grandmother when my mother was a kid. I just ruled him out of the picture, because it didn’t seem necessary to dig information on someone who wasn’t interested in staying in the picture. “Why are you here,” I questioned, not knowing how I felt.

“Your mother wouldn’t give me your contact information. I had to find you on my own. There are some things I have to tell you. I need to share them with someone in the family, or it will all be lost. If you’ll let me?”

I wanted to believe my mother was keeping him away for a reason, but I wasn’t mad at him, and I wanted to know. “I’m listening.”

Good things start with coffee, even your story.