The Latte Angel
about the story
The Latte Angel is set in New York.
It may be the city of broken dreams, but there is a Dream Healer at work...
the latte angel
“Can I get a latte to go please.”
The barista tamped the espresso and locked it in, putting a round white cup under the portafilter. Melissa was going to change her mind.
“Actually could I get that to have in?”
“No problem.” He immersed the steam wand then raised it slowly to froth, her thoughts swirling as the milk sought to attain its dense, velvety texture.
I’ll do it by myself. Sure I will. I don’t need to rely on anybody else. They’d never understand anyway. Small town minds. There’s nothing for me back there.
The barista poured at a steady rate, rocking the pitcher as he pulled the action away from the back of the cup, sneaking milk down its sides. He placed the cup on a saucer and set it at the end of the counter.
The young woman seated herself by the window. Looking down into her cup, she saw that the fine foam and rich crema had been swirled into an image. Melissa gazed at the snow-white figure enfolding a dark child. It was exquisitely rendered: the tilt of the mother’s face, the graceful arms holding the child close, emanating love and protection. Tears sprang to her eyes, faced with such a delicate articulation of Madonna and Child.
I’ll go back to Michigan. Mother’s love is mother’s love. It will just take time, that’s all. I’m still their child. I’m going to have a baby.
Meanwhile, the barista was listening to the soul-doubt of Darius. Having anticipated this day since college, fear now blocked him. This was our dream - me and Saul. We promised to give back, support the young in Brooklyn. All our talk about using our education to mentor, to offer stability of vision.
But now his Safara was trying to make a go of it as an artist, and Saul’s wife was expecting their second child.
If it’s not possible now, is there ever going to be a right time? Why should integrity and survival have to be an either-or choice. Darius felt himself falling away from his centre.
The barista brought the steam wand down into the pitcher, heard the steady ch-ch-ch sound that they called the sweet spot, the key to microfoam. Then he concentrated on the act of easing the milk into the mochas with gentle oscillations to let the heavy crema rise to the surface, like dreams.
The two friends sat opposite each other. Neither spoke. Between them, foam poised to brim over, the mochas bore two bold, munificent hearts. They proclaimed the lavish generosity of the universe.
Darius straightened up. “Okay here’s what we do: we start running ‘Holla Black’ one day per week, and we build it from there. I have three good leads for angel investors…”
Back at the counter, Amy’s thoughts came through like trumpets sounding. Newly promoted, she was determined to atone for the wrongs she had done. She prayed that this would be a clean slate for her. Her heart quavered, terrified that it might not be, that the debt could never be paid.
The barista worked to give the milk its micro-bubble texture, then tilted a small dollop of richness for her espresso macchiato, shaking the pitcher as he poured. Amy took the drink directly from his hands. “Thanks - oh how beautiful!”
She sat at a small table near the door; she would have to leave shortly, make an early start. She wanted to unpack into her new office and get the files organised. There was an auction this afternoon in London, a manuscript that would be perfect for The Met. She couldn’t dawdle.
Amy settled herself before the cup and saucer as if preparing to take a test. The coffee and milk created a chiaroscuro effect. Over a landscape of fawn hills, a glorious sun broke through the red-brown of the macchiato. Its beams shone to the circumference of the cup. It told of the beauty of new light, the promise of the dawn. Amy raised her cup to take the first sip.
A new day. It’s my new day. A smile broke across her face.
It’s going to be alright.
Joseph was so burdened he could barely heave the thoughts into his mind. Why do they let you out if they never really let you out. Have to carry that heavy place around with me for the rest of my life. Out here all folks see is a prison term. There’s no end to the sentence I‘ve been given.
“Would you like warm milk with your coffee?”
The barista watched as the surface of the milk changed from a dull lustre to a luminescent sheen. He tilted the cup, fanning the coffee out as he shimmied the jug lightly to build up the shapes, elevated his pour to thin the centre stem, then drew the milk back through the dark liquid. He put it up on the counter with a quick smile.
The cup held a universe within its rim. Perfectly detailed, a whirlpool galaxy wound its graceful arms around clusters of stars as nebulae spun in eddies and gyres. Resting on the table, the image in the cup rotated slowly. Joseph sat and stared, remembering his childhood captivation with the night sky. The wonder of knowing that he was made from stars, that before he opened his eyes for the first time he had travelled through galaxies, that he was already truly extraordinary.
Today is going to be a better day.
The morning rush finished, the barista emptied the last grounds from the filter basket and rinsed through the machine.
He was an angel: one of the seventh rank, the order of principalities. He devoted his energies to this city, watching over the karma and destinies of its inhabitants. He helped to guide the lost, the despairing, the burdened.
The name given to him by God was Haniel.
At the New Amsterdam Coffee House, on the Upper West Side, they called him Alan.
Copyright © Orlaith O'Sullivan, 2008
