Everything laid out on the table was intentional. Disciplined athlete and eater, and the best soccer player I’ve ever met. Now my mentor, my bro, and my trustworthy emergency contact is measuring ground coffee beans with an electric scale.

“See, you got lonely during quarantine, found someone who’s constantly cheating on you but still stayed with. Doesn’t really make sense.” He says, and I’m about to defend by saying how emotionally attached I was, but I know that’s not really the point, so I stay quiet.

Five items arrive on the counter as a break up special menu: grapefruit soda, green smoothie, affogato, pour over coffee and strawberry milk. All crafted right in front of the counter.

“For me, I’m not looking for a girlfriend anymore. I thought about why I wanted one to begin with, and it was to have as my emotional dump. Knowing someone will be there when I go back home is a nice feeling and dating is fun. But you can do all that without being in a relationship. And I can be my own therapist instead of finding someone else to be my emotional support.”

Half-listening to his passionate lecture about the origins of various coffee beans and appropriate cups used for each, I think of how Instagram-able the drinks are. Like others have done, I suggest for the 100th time to open a café or a restaurant, while also knowing he’s not making pretty drinks to impress others but rather for himself, which makes the taste more meaningful. Michelle Obama’s book is composed of three sections: “Becoming Me”, “Becoming Us”, and “Becoming More”. My comrade’s homemade drinks in front seemed to be pointing out the importance of establishing a “me” before jumping to an “us”. Pouring coffee every day even if no one is around. To enjoy, to improve and to understand more. Not to please anyone else, and he’s found that “me” in coffee.

On the side, he goes on to shove some spinach and kale of what is worth a bowl of Just Salad in a Ninja blender cup. He doesn’t put any fruits in. Once pointed out, his lecture continues.

“The same way I don’t put potato chips in a smoothie,” he explains, “the purpose of green smoothies is to take veggies that I wouldn’t eat otherwise. Whereas potato chips or fruits, I’d be happy to eat on its own without blending. Doesn’t need to be in there.”

Questioning the idea of potato chips in a smoothie, I feel betrayed as he was the one who passed on the recipe two years ago to include fruits in green smoothies. I’d been adding fruits since, but his still tasted better.

“I’m only drinking this to intake nutrition so it doesn’t have to be tasty, just drinkable. Fruits would add extra calories I don’t need.” He says.

Caffeine, greens, milk, vitamin C, and milk, he points at each one of the drinks he’s made. Everything has a purpose, and he’s made it to perfection just because he can and just because he wants to. I’m heading for a haircut, and he’s heading to Central Park with his coffee book. Only four more blocks to go until Lexington. He’s talking faster now.

“Your life is static right now. Complaining and not moving forward.” He says. Nice, I think. Straight to the point.

“Find something that makes you feel stable – doesn’t need to make you happy. Just stable. For me, that’s two or three meaningful conversations every week. Can be text or Facetime. I exercise at least three times a week and drink at least one cup of green smoothie a day. You got to make smaller goals to keep yourself going. I don’t really like to read but I’m going to now, for an hour. An hour isn’t that long, I know, but I still learn something new. All you need is to write down where you want to be in a year for instance and what you can do weekly to get there.”

I nod.

“The best soccer players,” he says, “are those who are fast at recovering. If you lose the ball, you don’t give up. You chase after to get it back. Quick recovery rate after failure is what makes the actual difference.” His right elbow has a big scar, from falling during soccer I’d assume. How are you I ask, and he smiles “I’m doing great.”

The letter I’d given when he was having a breakdown was held in between the pages of the book Alchemist he was returning to me today, and I knew and was happy to know my friend didn’t need this anymore.

—

“So you want to be a writer.”

She says. In Austin, Texas two ladies started a conversation at a bar seat during lunch and ended up somehow sharing me how to independently publish a book via Amazon and how to find writers’ groups in NYC. 

“Do you write every day?” She asks.

“I used to” is such a convenient phrase, so I swallow those words and give a “no”. I chuckle to myself as her eyebrows lift playfully. We both know what we’re thinking and I am guilty of the irony. How can one be a writer, if the person doesn’t write?

“Like the occasional rainy days after sunny ones, there will be times you wouldn’t want to. But one hour a day, every day. Block your calendar. It can be about anything – doesn’t need to be profound. But you have to write. Write habitually. ”

The fruits in my green smoothies that were adding extra calories. I didn’t really need it, but I kept on adding. And it’s time to stop.

Fall, fall and fall.

But sometimes as simple as that. Ones who still pick you up when you are down, the things you like, and the good things, to be back on track. And we need to be on track.