Solitary Cafe Cappuccino

Martin Davies was ready to end his life. It wasn't so much a decision as it was a conclusion, and unlike many who decided to end their game early, he'd come to it logically and stoically.

At thirty seven, Martin had nothing to look forward to and no family that would mourn his passing. He'd been divorced for over a year and the business that he'd owned and operated for over a decade had gone under suddenly. He'd gone bankrupt almost overnight, and he didn't even own his own home, which meant that he couldn't take out a mortgage. He had virtually no assets, and even his car was undrivable. Regardless, it wasn't about the money, or lack thereof.

It wasn't a personal image or identity issue, either. Martin was fairly attractive and looked good for his age. He had all of his hair and he was physically capable, and whatever would turn a woman off about him wouldn't have had anything to do with his looks or his body. Despite that, he had no interest in dating whatsoever, and his sex drive was completely nonexistent.

It was more than anything secular or tangible: Martin himself had been growing more and more disconnected over the course of the last few years, and he was finding it harder and harder to care about anything, especially his mental health. He'd thought about the possibility of it being a chemical imbalance; he'd even thought about going to see a psychologist, but then, he didn't have health insurance, and even if he did, what would they do but give him some drugs and tell him to that it was all about his perspective and attitude?

As far as Martin saw it, he'd just be shifting from one altered state of consciousness to another, and he didn't see any point in growing dependant on something that would only cost him money that he didn't have. That of course, would worsen his financial situation, and he was already on the brink of being homeless.

More than even that, Martin Davies was tired. Just the thought of trying to feel anything was exhausting, and he couldn't seem to find his own reasons for living. Every time he tried, he came up short, and eventually he ended up producing more reasons for dying than living.

Once he concluded for certain that suicide was the all in all enveloping answer for his (in his mind) perpetual crisis, there was only one thing holding him back.

Martin hated the idea of leaving his body behind.

If nothing else, he was a courteous fellow, and he couldn't stand the notion of leaving his shell for someone else to deal with. Killing himself was easy; there were a myriad of ways to do it quietly and painlessly. The real challenge was to do the deed in such a way that no one would have to be bothered afterwards, a feat that he quickly realized was easier said than done.

After much consideration, he decided that his only course of action would be to hike deep into the wilderness and throw himself into a ravine. If he went out far enough, the chances of anyone finding his body before nature ran its course would be very slim. He was fine with the idea of just his bones being found, but the process prior to that stage was something he could scarcely stomach the thought of, and he had no intention to thrust his selfish act unfairly into someone else's hands.

So Martin found himself trekking through the high forest alone. In the early AM hours, it was almost too dark to see, but he wanted to leave extra early to make sure that he wouldn't run into an overly eager morning hiker or jogger.

It was early fall, and the high mountain near the Oregon coast was somewhat foggy. He moved carefully, taking his time for the first hour and paying as much attention to where his feet were falling as he could. The last thing he wanted was to misstep and fall in a place that would only leave him injured. On top of that, he would most certainly be found before he died, since he was so close to a known trail, and then the never ending stream of questions would come. People would try to help him, and he didn't want help; he'd made up his mind and he was completely resolved.

So Martin hiked on. He traveled upward and inward, further and further away from civilization and deeper towards what he hoped would be the end of his suffering. Relatively small as it was, the state of Oregon still contained millions of acres of wild forest, and getting impossibly lost in certain areas was still more than feasible, especially for someone who fully intended to.

By noon, Martin had absolutely no idea where he was. He'd cut up from the trail hours before and climbed several steep inclines. The further up he went, the less peaty and more clay like the forest floor became, and soon he found exactly the sort of area he'd been looking for.

He stood atop a shale cliff that overlooked a drop that was several hundred feet below him. The trees were much sparser towards the top of the mountain, and the spot would lend itself to his purposes nicely. There was no chance that he would get snagged on anything on the way down, and he very much doubted that anyone would find his body before it was largely decomposed.

As macabre as all of it seemed, Martin was feeling calm. There was no one around to distract him. No cars or city sounds. No homeless people littering the streets and muttering to themselves crazily. No hipsters listening to alternative music while riding ecologically friendly bicycles made out of recycled materials. There were absolutely no signs of civilization, or so he thought, until he took a deep breath and looked to his left.

There, on an excruciatingly tall pine tree, was a wooden cut out of a classic rubber duck.

He stopped suddenly and stared at it in disbelief, "What the hell?" He whispered under his breath as he cocked his head and took a step towards it.

As he approached, he could see that his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. The wooden duck was painted a bright, glossy yellow, and it was so pristine that it looked like it had just been put out that morning. He noticed then that there was some writing on the duck, and he took another step forward.

Martin Davies winced at the duck as he stepped right up to it. The duck, which was apparently a sign, was nailed into the tree, and the nail showed no signs of rust. The sign read simply: This way to the Solitary Cafe.

The letters were handwritten and beautifully feminine, and Davies stared at the sign for a long moment.

"Am I crazy?" He asked himself as he reached out to the duck. It stood at about eye level, and when he placed his hands on its smooth surface it felt just as solid and real as it looked. Unable to fight his curiosity, he glanced in the direction the duck's head was facing and saw another yellow sign in the distance.

At that point, the man was left with a choice. He could ignore the signs completely and carry out his death as planned, or he could investigate. As resolved as he was to end his life, his curiosity was mounting exponentially, and in the end, he was only human. Almost before he even knew that he was moving, he was walking towards the second yellow duck.

He found three signs before he saw the cabin. After the third one, he began to think that someone had left the signs there as a cruel joke, but as he made his way around an unusually thick copse of trees, he saw the building several hundred yards away.

He stared at it unblinkingly for several seconds, scarcely believing what he was seeing. As far as he knew, there were no resorts in the area, and he knew for fact that he was miles away from any well used trail. Unless someone had struck out and attempted to make an armageddon style homestead in the literal middle of nowhere, he couldn't think of any reason why anyone would build a cabin, let alone a cafe, in the middle of the rural high forest. To further add to his dismay, the cabin looked like it was in perfect condition, and though he was still relatively far away he could see a billboard style sign sitting in front of the cabin that was shaped like a rubber duck.

His curiosity had grown well past the point of interested and into the realm of obsession. He had so many questions, not the least of which involved his own sanity, and since he planned to end his own life, he had very little fear of being shot by a crazy conspiracist seeking isolation.

Once Martin was close enough to read the sign, he stopped again. The sign itself looked just as new as the ones that had led him to that point, and it had the same beautiful writing on it that read: Welcome to the Solitary cafe.

A small gravel path led up to the cabin's door, and along either side a tasteful assortment of potted zinnias and snapdragons.

Compelled to move forward, Martin made his way up the three steps that led to the door and slowly placed his hand on the handle.

"Hello, welcome to the Solitary cafe!"

Martin forgot almost everything in a single moment. The sights, sounds and smell of the inside of the cabin were unlike anything he was expecting. The inside of the building seemed far larger than the outside, and the warm, sensible decor was both inviting and homely.

Rich, soft jazz could be heard playing from speakers that were out of sight, and there were rubber ducks everywhere. Despite all of it however, the thing that caused him to forget even himself was the woman he saw behind the counter.

"Please, come inside; I'm so glad you could make it!"

He took a single step forward and forgot all of his questions as he tried to remember how to speak. The woman that had greeted him was like no woman he had ever seen. She was very tall and broad, and though she was thickly built she was is no way overweight or masculine. In fact, he'd never seen a woman that looked more feminine, and both her skin and features were positively radiant.

"Come, come, don't be shy; I've got everything ready for the tasting," The blonde woman beamed, "I could use your help big time."

Martin found some semblance of lucidity and stuttered, "I... I'm sorry, b,but... you must have been expecting someone else."

The woman cocked her head and gave the man a wry grin. She was wearing a plain white button up blouse and a skirt that sat high on her hips, and though the outfit was plain he couldn't imagine her being any more beautiful, "You are a coffee roaster, yes?"

His eyes widened and he nodded, "Well, yes, I am. I mean... I was, u,up until recently."

"Nonsense," she swished her hand through the air flippantly, "Once a roaster always a roaster. Now, you've been doing this for a good long while, right? Roasting coffee I mean."

"Since I was sixteen with my father... yes," he couldn't disagree with her even if he wanted to.

"Good! The thing I like about you is that you do everything old school. I need someone with your talent who's not into using all these hoity toity computers and jazz to roast their coffee. I am of the firm belief that some things should still be done with instinct and experience, and computers just can't do that. But enough about that; get over here so we can get started!"

Martin shuffled forward with a somewhat dopey look on his face. He had no idea where he was and he could scarcely remember how he'd arrived there, but between the the music and the friendly faces of the ducks that surrounded him, he wasn't feeling threatened in any way.

He stepped up to the counter and folded his hands as he mustered the courage to make eye contact with the woman, "Davies is my name... Martin Davies... miss."

The tall woman laughed brightly, "It's a pleasure to meet you Martin, truly, but you don't have to flatter me and call me miss. I assure you that you're not much older than I am, so please, feel free to relax." She stuck out her hand, "Megara is my name: owner of the Solitary Cafe and more ducks than you can shake a stick at!"

He shook her hand and his heart almost stopped when he wrapped his fingers around hers. Her skin was soft and delicate, but she was strong, and he shook her hand firmly, "The pleasure is all mine."

She was about to reply when he looked down at his hand and gasped, "Oh geez, I'm so sorry about that!" He drew his hand back and wiped it on his sleeve. He'd forgotten how filthy his hands were, and he couldn't believe how careless he'd been.

"Oh, don't worry about it," Megara chuckled as she turned toward the sink behind the counter, "Feel free to go wash up while I get things ready. The restroom is straight back."

The man nodded self consciously and made his way to the back of the building.

There were two restrooms, but neither of them were marked, so Martin just picked one. Once inside, he rushed to the sink and stopped abruptly when he saw the wall.

There was a lustrous, magnificent painting that spanned the entirety of one wall. It depicted a ship rolling across a storming sea, and the sky was full of dark clouds and lightning. On the ship, several men were pointing harpoon guns at a giant yellow rubber duck that was nearly the size of the ship itself, and in the corner beside the sink a sharp signature could be seen next to a caption.

"Moby duck..." Martin chuckled as he looked at the signature, "Carol Ewes."

The name didn't ring a bell, but whoever the woman was, she was an extraordinary artist. Martin turned away from the wall and paused when he saw that the soap dispenser was a duck, then he laughed lowly and pumped a bit of soap into his hand.

After washing his hands, Martin looked at his face in the mirror and frowned slightly. Less than an hour before, he'd not only not cared about how he looked, but he hadn't even considered it remotely. He pumped a little more soap into his hands and went to work washing his face.

An unmistakable smell filled his nostrils as he stepped out: the aroma of freshly ground coffee. It was deep and pungent, and it stirred up so many memories of his childhood that Martin had to stop and enjoy it for just a moment.

As he approached the bar, he saw the mysterious woman working behind the espresso machine. He stared for a moment longer than would have been considered socially acceptable, but if Megara noticed then she didn't give any indication that she was bothered.

"There's the third," the blonde smiled as she set the small glass down on the bar that stood to the side of the register.

Martin stepped up to the bar and sat at a stool that was there. In front of him, there were three shots of espresso lined up beside a glass of tonic water. "Is this... a tasting?" He asked with genuine surprise.

"Indeed it is," Megara replied with quiet excitement. "Long story short, I'm looking for a new house espresso that will lend itself to a myriad of uses. I've managed to narrow it down to these three, but I'm at a total loss as to which would be the best option. I was hoping to get an expert opinion," she smiled gently, "If the expert is willing."

Martin stared at the three shots distantly, "You want my opinion?"

"Absolutely, yes. None but a classically trained roaster would be able to give me the perspective I'm looking for. We'll be using the winner for all of our coffee drinks, so I need something that will stand up to sugar and milk."

Martin nodded and reached for the first glass on the left, "I understand," he said with a bit of disconnect as he raised the glass to his nose.

He thought that perhaps he was dreaming or hallucinating the entire thing. A cafe being run by a surreally gorgeous woman in the literal middle of nowhere seemed like the manic musings of a disturbed (one might even say suicidal) man, but as soon as the aroma of the espresso filled his nostrils he knew that he what he was experiencing was real.

He sipped the coffee carefully, allowing it to move over every part of his tongue. He held some of it in his mouth for a moment, then swallowed, "This is an excellent medium roast... Sumatran?"

"It is," she grinned, "You're good. So, thoughts?"

"As good of an espresso as it is, it would make better drip. It's the kind of coffee I want to drink with pancakes and sausage, but it's not going to hold up to being mixed with drinks. Don't get me wrong, it's flavorful enough, but the subtler notes are going to get completely lost, and in the end the roast itself is just too light for the application."

"I was thinking the same thing; that solidifies it. How about the next?"

Martin took a sip of tonic water to cleanse his pallet then tasted the second shot, "Hm...Guatemalan?"

"Yes, but it's not a single origin. From what I've been told, it's a blend of beans from three different regions."

The hiker took another sip and nodded, "It's going to be hard to top this one. It's chocolatey enough to hold up to just about anything, but I'm worried about the flavor getting lost in too much milk."

"I hadn't thought about that; that's a good point," Megara licked her lips. "The third one is kind of a shot in the dark, pun intended; I'm not sure if it's going to work on any level, but I thought it was interesting enough to throw in."

Martin took yet another sip of the tonic water and went at the third shot with enthusiasm. He wasn't sure what to expect, but as soon as the flavor and texture hit his tongue, his eyes widened, "This is...what is this?"

Megara smiled softly, "It's an Italian roast, as far as I can tell. The beans are comprised of about ninety percent arabica, but the remaining ten percent..."

"Robusta..." Martin finished her sentence breathlessly.

"Yes, that's right... but you would know better than me, wouldn't you?"

Martin's hands began to tremble as he set the remainder of the liquid down. Its taste was all too familiar, and it had drowned him in both nostalgia and a bitter remembrance of a time long past, "Where did you get this coffee?"

"I picked it up in a small specialty shop in Salem," The tall woman answered quietly. "The person working there said that it was the last of its kind."

Martin swallowed hard and stared at the half full espresso glass, "I... I roasted this coffee, but how..." he looked up at the cafe owner suddenly, "I roasted the last batch months ago; how can it still taste this fresh?"

Megara's smile was far from innocent, but there was nothing malicious about it as she answered, "That may be my little secret. In any case, I'm intrigued by this roast for several reasons. The fact that you chose to use a percentage of what is generally considered a lower quality bean speaks volumes about your confidence and skill as a roaster. The extra bitterness adds a sort of depth that holds up well to mixed drinks, and you can taste the smokiness through even the thickest wall of cream and sugar. The added caffeine of the robusta gives it the kick that my drinks need, and the almost tannic aftertaste lingers in a pleasant way, almost like a teaser leading up to the next sip."

"It was my father's recipe," the forlorn man continued to stare at the glass. "People accused him of adding the robusta to this blend to bring the cost down, but that's not why he did it. Papa loved cappuccinos and lattes, but he loved espresso as well..." Martin smiled distantly, "He was hell bent on making a roast that could hold up to milk and sugar without completely masking the taste or body of the espresso. It took him a few tries, but in the end I'd say he succeeded. This blend embodies his entire career," The man snickered, "A bit too well. He never cared about making a bunch of money: he was in it for the coffee and the work itself. He was somewhat of a perfectionist, which ultimately led to him and my mother splitting up when I was in my early teens, but I kept working with him all throughout my adulthood. Anyway..." Martin sighed as he blinked away the mist that had formed in his eyes, "Sorry about that: you didn't ask for my life story."

"No, no, I think it's wonderful that you can remember your father so fondly, even the bad with the good," Megara began to clear out the glasses. "After all, we love people for their faults more than we love them for their accomplishments, don't we?"