The Sablier

© Victoria Krauchunas

When I was young, I was full of adventure and a fondness for coffee. As a result, I traveled as much as possible, working odd jobs to fuel my addiction to the overpriced beverages served at small coffee shops. I must have visited over one hundred of those places in my youth, places with “the best latte this side of the Mississippi,” and cozy little armchairs. Places where the fireplaces had real fire, and the locals visited and chatted about the locals who weren't there at the time.

However, there is one coffee shop that was different. Not in appearance--it looked like every other little coffee shop in existence, down to the selection of drinks written on a chalkboard and the mismatched furniture. Not even in name. It was called something French (The Sablier) like eighty percent of the coffee shops I had visited. No, (and this might seem like a little thing) what was different was that I had a conversation there. You see, I am quite the loner, always have been. Though I visited many new places, I have very few memories of the people there, only of the things I saw while I was there, the landmarks and museums.

But, as I said, this time was different. And even stranger, the person I chatted with was much older than me, perhaps by thirty or forty years. I had a strange fear of older people back then, not entirely sure why. Perhaps it was a mortality thing. Anyway, looking back on it, it was very out of character, but the whole thing seemed very normal at the time.

The shop was quite busy, forcing those who wanted to sit down to share with people they didn't know. He sat across from me, setting his drink on the table. (Tea, I noted with disgust. I was not a tea person then.) We sat in silence for a few minutes, and then suddenly he spoke.

“Hello, my friend,” he said in a quiet voice. “How are you?”

I am ashamed to say I may have answered a bit rudely-“Not bad, who are you?”

“A friend,” was all he would say, though I repeated the question at least three more times. Finally, I gave up and we lapsed back into silence until I was about halfway through my coffee.

“May I give you some advice?” the man asked. His voice was not as quiet as before, and perhaps this is what prompted me to say yes.

“Don't marry the first woman you want to ask. It won't end well. Don't stay with that job you can't stand. You don't want to waste your time that way. When your wife gets diagnosed with cancer, tell her you love her every day.”

A chill went up my spine. I was rather creeped out by this stranger spouting off advice. “Um. Thanks, I guess,” I replied, and my discomfort must have been apparent, because he took a last sip of his tea and stood up.

“Have a good life, my friend. Perhaps one day we shall meet again.”

“Yeah… maybe. Let's do that sometime, eh?” I answered, forcing a bit of a laugh, and vowing to try to forget about the conversation.

Forty years later, I had just lost my wife to cancer. It was only then that I remembered what had happened in that coffee shop. Looking back, I realized I had followed the advice of the man, though I hadn't noticed it at the time. Really, it had been pretty good advice. I certainly wasn't complaining. The loss had left me alone and frightened-if the world could take the best thing I ever had away from me, what else would it do? Unsure of myself, I began to wander again, though not as far, and with less of a focus on coffee (high blood pressure had forced me to give up my addiction).

Instead, I began to talk to anyone who would talk to me. I focused on making friends, and soon I had quite the circle. Life began to look up again, if only because I had endless people to talk to.

One day I found myself in the town where I had met that stranger, so many years ago. For a moment I entertained the idea of searching for him, but I soon realized that he would be long gone. Instead, I decided to visit the coffee shop, if it was still around.

To my surprise, it was. Many of my attempts to trace my youthful wanderings had been thwarted because of how places change over time. Whenever I found an old place, it was like an old friend (something I didn't have many of) greeting me.

I walked in, taking in the surroundings. What I saw surprised me even more. Not much had changed. Clearly they had not felt the need to “modernize” as many of the other still existing shops had. I ordered a tea, smiling to myself as I remembered how much I used to hate it, and turned to find a seat.

Except it was so crowded, I would be forced to sit with a stranger. At one time that may have bothered me, but now I was almost excited at the prospect. I found a seat near a young man, someone who looked like a wanderer. He was staring at a magazine very intently, clearly not a social butterfly.

“Hello… my friend,” I said, amusing myself with using the words from my past. How the tables had turned. “How are you?”

He looked up from his magazine then, and what I saw probably should have chilled my blood, but I think that all along I had been expecting it, somewhere deep inside.

You see, the young man was me. For a moment I considered telling him who I was, but I had seen enough time travel movies to know you must not reveal yourself to your younger or older self. Instead, I stuck with the script the whole way through, and left satisfied.

Later, I checked what the name of the café meant. Turns out, it means hourglass.