And there she was.

You hear birds chirping. You smell the thick scent of grass. You feel a gentle breeze caressing ever so slightly across your cheeks. You taste something bitter in your mouth and you feel perplexed. You continue to keep your eyes closed.

"Why?"

This question, how many times have you been asking this in your lifetime?

"How?"

This usually comes after the first question, if it ever gets answered.

What is this bitter taste?

You think about where you are now, I am lying down on a green pasture- no, wait, I am standing atop a hill overlooking... a meadow. Your eyelids threaten to open as curiosity starts creeping around your nerves, tingling them like the dying vibrato of a plucked guitar string. You continue to investigate further with your eyes closed.

Yesterday, she said she was leaving. The day before yesterday, what was I doing? You furrow your brows and think hard. I was busy at the shop. Breakfast was the usual, and so was lunch. Dinner was a medium-rare sirloin steak with a side of mashed potatoes and boiled carrots and broccoli. As you recall, you feel a little hungry, yet, the bitter taste does not go away. You could remember it so clearly because it was your last meal with her.

You first met her when you were just a mere part-time barista, waiting tables and clearing them up as well, in your aimless, yet invigorating fresh-out-of high school days. All of your senses prickle while you thought about that first encounter...

She was a regular at the cafe you were working at, then. The cafe was a small coffee shop that was nothing really impressive; a typical coffee joint with its whitewashed walls and those electrical IKEA paper lanterns dangling above forlornly, timber furniture and plywood booths for groups or evening casual dinners that were filled with many different cushions of shapes and sizes, concrete floors and their mismatched carpets all over. But you really liked the cosy atmosphere, because that was why you wanted to work there in the first place thinking that it would be cool. However, time seemed to pass without waiting for you when with every hang-outs with your friends and the bump-ins with your fellow seniors, you feel left behind when at first you felt that you were on the edge of... something more to come.

That day, you broke a cheap ceramic coffee mug when you accidentally scalded your hand because you were so deep in thought about your future. You muttered an inaudible apology and proceeded to pick the broken pieces up while Harold told you off. What did he say? Something about "you useless little punk" and "trash should belong in the trash." Still distracted, you cut yourself on one of the broken pieces and you let out a frustrated groan. You did not expect all these, and it annoyed you that they were happening one after another and at the same time. All you wanted was to be left in peace with your thoughts. This is not my day, you thought as you dumped the broken pieces into the trash and decided to call it a day from work. You sighed deeply, Harold's not going to like this, but fuck him, I have bigger issues than a stupid day's work of lattes and cappucinos.

As you expected, Harold did not hold back. Well, he did not yell but the customers definitely heard and saw him berating his French-style moustache off. You found yourself concentrating on his heaving belly as he breathed out his words furiously and loudly. When he was done, you shrugged off the silly apron, slung your bag over your shoulders and walked out of the cafe with the air of a teenage rebel. Once you stepped out, you paused and took in a deep breath. You mutter another curse and started walking to the nearby park.

"Oi!"

You turned around.

And there she was.