The Weight of the Untouched Mug

Anthony pushed through the heavy wooden door, the jingle of the bell doing little to cut through the static in his head. His backpack slung too low, heavy with textbooks he hadn't opened in days, bumped against his hip. He hated how it felt, always dragging him down. The Portage. Same place, same time. A Tuesday, which felt like a Monday, which felt like all the other days blurring into one long, fluorescent-lit corridor.

He stopped just inside the entrance, shrugging his shoulders, a small shiver passing through him despite the cafe's warmth. His eyes, unfocused, scanned the familiar space—the worn leather armchairs, the framed photos of old Winnipeg scenes, the blackboard scrawled with the day's specials in a looping, elegant hand. He almost tripped over a small, scuffed area rug near the counter, catching himself with a clumsy hand against a shelf of local pottery.

"Morning, Anthony," a voice, soft and melodious as brewing tea, reached him. Cathy. She was already at the espresso machine, wiping down the gleaming chrome with a practiced, almost balletic motion. Her smile was a small, comforting thing, like the first sip of something warm on a cold day. Her hair, a practical blonde bun, held no stray wisps, and her apron was impossibly clean.

"Hey, Cathy." His voice came out raspy, a little thinner than he'd intended. He cleared his throat, pushing his hands into the pockets of his worn corduroy jacket. The fabric felt rough against his knuckles. "The usual, please."

Cathy nodded, already reaching for a mug. "Rough one? You look like you've been wrestling with a particularly stubborn ghost." She said it lightly, but a knowing glint entered her pale blue eyes. She always seemed to see too much, in a way that wasn't intrusive, just… perceptive. Anthony often wondered if she'd been a therapist in another life, or perhaps a particularly patient librarian.

"Something like that," Anthony mumbled, pulling out his wallet. He picked at a loose thread on the cuff of his jacket. The truth was, he *had* been wrestling something stubborn: himself. His future. His entire sense of worth, currently hanging by a fraying thread of doubt.

The aroma of fresh coffee began to fill the air, a dark, rich scent that usually cleared his mind but today only deepened his sense of muddle. He watched Cathy work, her movements precise, efficient. Steam hissed from the machine, momentarily obscuring her face, then dissipated, leaving her perfectly composed. She slid the finished latte across the counter, the foam art a perfect, delicate leaf. Anthony always appreciated the effort, even if he usually destroyed it with his first gulp.

"Twenty-seven minutes, Anthony. You're a bit late today." Cathy commented, her gaze flicking to the large, antique clock above the door. It was a beautiful piece, mahogany with Roman numerals, always keeping perfect time.

Anthony forced a weak chuckle. "Slept in. Or rather, laid awake. Thinking. Or, trying not to, mostly." He handed over a crumpled ten-dollar bill. "I'm just… I don't know. Everything feels so big right now, you know? Like, one wrong turn and it's all over."

Cathy took the bill, her fingers brushing his for a fraction of a second – a touch so light it could have been the static electricity from the counter. "It's never all over, dear. Just a different path. And sometimes," she paused, making change, her eyes meeting his directly, "the paths we refuse to take are the ones that haunt us the most."

He stared at her, the words landing with an unexpected weight. He took his change, his fingers fumbling slightly, and picked up the mug. The porcelain was warm, almost hot, against his palms, a solid comfort. He walked towards his usual spot by the window, a small table tucked away in a corner, watching the last of the amber leaves clinging desperately to the oak trees across the street.

The Unchosen Road

Cathy's words, simple as they were, had dug a trench right into the core of his current anxieties. He was at a crossroads. His parents, bless their practical souls, expected him to finish his engineering degree, get a 'real' job, secure a future. And he'd been on that track, sort of. His grades were decent, the coursework challenging but manageable. But then there was the other thing. The graphic design portfolio he'd been secretly building, the late nights spent sketching, designing, losing himself in colours and fonts and layouts. The art school application, half-filled out, tucked away in a folder on his laptop.

He took a sip of his latte. It was perfect, as always. But the warmth didn't quite reach the cold knot in his stomach. What if Cathy was right? What if choosing the 'safe' path, the one everyone expected, was the real ghost in the machine? A life not lived, a passion untended, a hollow space where creativity should have been.

He remembered a conversation with his father last week. "Art? Anthony, that's a hobby. You can do that on the weekends. We're talking about a career here, stability." The words had been delivered with an air of absolute certainty, like a pronouncement from a stone tablet. And a part of Anthony, the logical, dutiful part, had agreed. Agreed to stifle the urge, to put the pencils and the Wacom tablet away, to just… get on with it.

But the thought felt like a dull ache behind his ribs. He pictured himself five, ten, twenty years from now, a competent engineer, comfortable, perhaps even successful by societal standards. And bored. Deeply, fundamentally bored. He imagined the regret, a slow-burning ember that would never quite extinguish, a constant whisper of 'what if' in the quiet hours of the night. Cathy's 'paths we refuse to take' echoed like a bell in his skull.

He looked out the window again. A couple walked by, laughing, their breath pluming white in the crisp air. The woman had a bright orange scarf that stood out against her dark coat, a small, vibrant splash of defiance against the muted autumn landscape. He thought of his own life, currently a blend of browns and greys, and the vibrant colours he longed to splash onto a digital canvas.

His phone buzzed on the table, startling him. It was a text from his friend, Liam. *Got that design for the charity concert ready? You promised me first look!* Anthony hadn't even started it, hadn't had the heart. He'd been too busy feeling sorry for himself, too busy debating the unanswerable.

He stared at the untouched foam leaf in his mug. It looked too perfect to disturb. A miniature, transient work of art, destined to be consumed. He felt a pang of something akin to guilt. He was letting his own art, his own leaf, just sit there, unsipped, untasted.

A few minutes later, Cathy appeared at his table, a small dish towel slung over her shoulder. "Everything alright here, Anthony?" She gestured vaguely at his still-full mug.

He jumped slightly, pulling his attention away from the swirling anxieties in his head. "Oh. Yeah. Just… thinking." He felt a blush creep up his neck. It was embarrassing, sitting there stewing in his own indecision.

"Sometimes," Cathy said, her voice dropping a notch, her eyes drifting over the customers at the other tables, seeing but not truly seeing them, "sometimes the strongest flavour comes from the beans you thought weren't quite right. The slightly bitter ones, the ones that need a bit more work to bring out their potential. They can create something truly unique, something memorable. But you have to be willing to brew them differently." She paused, her gaze settling back on his face, keen and unwavering. "You have to be willing to taste it."

She didn't wait for a reply, just gave him another small, knowing smile and drifted back to the counter, seamlessly picking up a dropped napkin from an empty table. Anthony watched her go, a strange prickle on his skin. Brew them differently. Taste it. It sounded like an absurd metaphor, a barista talking about coffee beans, but it felt like a direct command.

He picked up his phone again. Liam's text still there. *Got that design for the charity concert ready?* He looked at the half-filled art school application on his laptop screen, then at the untouched engineering textbook beside it. The weight of his unmade decision felt suddenly heavier than his backpack, heavier than the whole world. He took a deep, shaky breath that smelled faintly of coffee and old paper.

He didn't know if this was supposed to feel… anything. Warm? Comforting? He just… didn't feel alone, not for a second, with Cathy's strange, resonant advice hanging in the air. He thought about the risk, the uncertainty, the sheer terrifying unknown of it all. But beneath that, a flicker. A different kind of excitement, sharp and exhilarating, like the first taste of pure, unadulterated espresso.

He pulled up the art school application, his thumb hovering over the 'save as' button. The deadline was in two days. He had just enough time. He still didn't know if it was the right choice, didn't know if he was making a colossal mistake, didn't know if he'd ever be truly good enough. But he knew, with a sudden, startling clarity, that he couldn't *not* try. He couldn't let that path be the one that haunted him.

His finger moved, not to 'save as', but to 'edit'. He’d brew it differently. He’d taste it. He still hadn't touched his latte, the perfect foam leaf slowly beginning to wilt at the edges, but he finally felt a faint stir of hunger. Real hunger, not for caffeine, but for something he'd kept locked away. As he started typing, a soft click came from the cafe's back room, a sound like a lock turning, or perhaps, a page turning. He looked up, but Cathy was nowhere to be seen, lost in the bustle of the lunch rush. The bell above the door gave another quiet jingle, though no one had entered or left.