Page 45 of When We Were Young

The groaning of the near-ancient coffee pot alerts us that it’s done brewing. Ruthie stands, walks back over to the machine, then reaches up and takes two mismatched mugs off the wall hooks.

She glances over her shoulder at me.

“How do you take yours?”

“Just black, please.”

I stare out the window while I wait for her to return to the booth with our mugs.

“Thank you,” I mutter as she places one on the table in front of me.

“You’re welcome.”

I stare down into my mug, having learned the hard way that I need to let this coffee cool for a minute or two before I take a sip. The burn on my tongue is still healing from a couple of days ago.

Even though it’s summer out and I’m not even remotely cold, I wrap my hands around the mug, finding comfort in its warmth.

When I glance up, Ruthie is the one staring out the window.

“I’ve been on this earth for a long time, and I’ve had my fair share of lovers, if you know what I mean.”

My mouth goes dry. I’m not sure where this is going, but I’m also not sure I want to know.

“But I’ve never been married, which is okay with me, because I’ve enjoyed every man I’ve been with. Whether it was just a romp in the hay or a love for that moment in time. I’ve had a good life.”

Ruthie takes a sip of her coffee, then places it back on the table and finally turns her gaze upon me.

Assuming the coffee must be safe now, I lift it to my lips and attempt a sip. Damn it. It’s still hot. How is she drinking this so easily?

I feel like I should say something to keep the conversation going, but I’m not sure where Ruthie is heading with this.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

“What’s the matter, honey? Never had a woman in her seventies talk to you about her sex life before?”

“Actually, no, I haven’t. But if you need to talk, I guess I’m okay with listening. Though Georgie would be a much better person to have this conversation with, seeing as she’s the steamy romance writer.”

“Oh, I know, sweetie, but her stuff is mild. She’s got a lot to learn in that realm before she can write the really good stuff. I’d only give her books one, maybe two, chili peppers.”

Unfortunately, I’ve just taken a sip of my coffee, and she shocks me enough that I spit it out. It splatters onto the table and my shirt. At least I’m wearing paint clothes. I feel like I’m always spilling something on my shirts and ruining them.

I proofread Georgie’s books, and the fact that Ruthie considers them mild has me very afraid to hear any more of her stories. She might have stories that are too spicy for me.

I watch as her expression changes, her smile fades, and some of the light in her eyes dims. She absentmindedly stirs the coffee in her mug with the spoon she left in it and stares down at the swirling liquid.

“Yeah, I’ve certainly not missed out on any experiences, but I would trade them all if I could have had more time with the only man I never stopped loving.”

Before I can stop myself, I ask, “What happened?”

Maybe I don’t really want to know. Sad things seem to hit me so hard, and I frequently find myself grieving over what another person has had to go through. I’m about to apologize and tell her it’s none of my business, but she answers before I get a chance.

“Car accident. He was only twenty-four. It happened fifty-three years ago last week, as a matter of fact. It’s gotten easier over the years; the memories faded some, but the feelings never did. I think I prefer it this way, though. It would’ve made me really sad to have nothing of him left.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that, Ruthie. Thank you for sharing that with me.”

After that, we sit in silence for several minutes, sipping the hot liquid and taking turns staring out the window.

When we’ve finished with our cups of coffee, I offer her another, and she declines. So, I take the mugs to the sink, wash them, then set them on a dish towel to dry.