“That’s not how they make them in France.” The man grumbled from across the counter. I was preparing a cappuccino and had not even started steaming the milk.

Had this been a year ago I would have simply finished what I started and poured his drink in a togo cup (even though he ordered it for here) and silently slid it across the counter at him. A discrete invitation for him to leave rather than stay like he had planned. I would have told him to have a nice day and turned around to clean the nozzles on the espresso machine. Not because they needed it, but because it kept me busy. It prevented me from saying something sarcastic such as, “Well we ain’t in France, now are we.” More of a statement than a question.

I’ve been saying the word “ain’t” more and more over the last few years. More for effect than anything. I know it’s wrong to say it. I know it’s not a word. But I love bending the rules. The older I get the more I love to do things like this. Lately, I’ve seriously been considering buying a tube of red lipstick. Very red lipstick. But then I remember that lipstick tickles and feels clammy and I can’t leave well enough alone so I’m continually mushing my lips together. Lipstick feels like glue.

But it’s present day and I’ve grown in the past year. Owning a coffee shop does that. One day you realize that people sometimes say more than they speak. Sometimes they are lonely or bored and simply want to talk and have someone listen rather than talk inside their head with no audience.

Us loners do that often. Talk inside our heads. Imaginary conversations.

So on this particular morning when this particular gentleman says to me, “That’s not how they do it in France.” I smile at him. I smile at him because I know. I smile and ask him, “Have you ever been to France?”

His face softens, “Many years ago. My wife and I went there for our honeymoon. Paris. We went all the way to the top of the Eiffel Tower.”

“Wow. That must have been cool. Could you see the city all around?” I ask. I know the answer but that doesn’t matter. I’ve been up there but that doesn’t matter. None of this matters. Because these fleeting five minutes of the day belong to him. It’s not about the damn cappuccino. He’s already back in 1973 and he wants to tell me about it. And I’m ok with that.

And I want to hear about it.

“Oh yes. It was in June. Hot as hell but we went up there anyway.” He’s comfortable with me now. He said hell.

I continue to grind the espresso beans, my movements a little slower to give him time to tell his story. That’s all he wants is some time to talk outside his head.

“It only rained one day the whole time we were there. We were having lunch at an outdoor café and the rain came out of nowhere. We just grabbed our plates and ran under an awning. Sat down on the curb and ate the rest of our sandwiches. She laughed so hard she got the hiccups. Our cappuccinos were more rain than coffee.”

I didn’t ask. Yet. It wasn’t time. I wanted him to bring her into the present day. Not me. Because at this moment I knew. His wife was gone.

A moment of silence as I grab the shots and pour them into the cup. I tap the steamed milk and swirl it around in the pitcher.

“How long were y’all there?”

“Five days. We were married for 45 years.”

Boom. And just like that she’s in the present day.

I smile at him. “Here, I can bring this out to you. Where are you sitting?” We move towards the big table in the front of the shop. This is my invitation to sit with him. The big table seats six. We are two. It’s a community table most of the time. The locals use it to gather and converse. It’s the least awkward way for me to sit with him without “sitting” with him.

“Forty-five years. That’s a long time! Do you have any children?”

He then proceeds to tell me about their two sons and three grandchildren. All live back east. He and his wife lived in Kentucky. They met at the University of Kentucky. He was a retired accountant and she had been a school teacher.

“How long ago did she pass away?” I asked. I asked because he wasn’t at the point where he could say she had passed. Sometimes those things take time. He wasn’t there yet.

“Ten weeks ago.”

We sit in silence for a moment.

“I’m so sorry. It sounds like you loved her very much.” and before he could answer, “So you are starting out the new year traveling…nice…are you out here to see friends or relatives?”

“I’m on my way to the Grand Canyon. We went there when our sons were young. She loved it and wanted her ashes spread around that area.”

At this point my husband comes out from the kitchen. He makes himself a mocha latte and has a seat at the table. Turns out Jim (I now know his name) likes to fly fish as well. The conversation turns to rivers and flys and weather. This is my cue and I get up and head back behind the counter and busy myself with cleaning the nozzles on the espresso machine.

Sometimes “It’s not how they make them in France.” Is not about cappuccinos or France. It’s about wanting to share your story.