She asked me if I found what I was looking for on the lonely green hills of Ireland. I smiled one of those sad smiles I’ve grown accustomed to wearing in recent years.
No, I said, it was never there to be found.
I looked into her kind face that used to smile more freely. She turned away.
I turned away as well, directing my attention to my Cafe Americano, a thin band of foam clinging desperately to the rim of the now empty cup.
So you didn’t find yourself? She asked smiling, sensing it was safe to continue, gently chiding my empty reasons for returning to the emerald isles.
I was never there either, not completely. An empty shell, wandering, looking, hoping. Eventually disappointed in my quest and in myself. Returning to the old ways without epiphany.
Epiphanies usually take longer than a week.
The build up, yes. The preparation could take a lifetime. The actual moment, instantaneous. Like seeing your true love’s face, her smile.
She turned away from me again. Her smile no longer mine. And I turned back to my Cafe Americano. The thin band of foam, now dried, encrusted, fossilized in its desire to return to a happier past, a completion no longer its own, a warm, creamy, bitter cup of coffee.