Four and a Half Minutes of Almost

A moment shared. A silence held. Four and a half minutes that might have meant everything.

Laughter warms the dimly lit room as a young man holds court, regaling a small crowd with tales of his wild escapades. Everyone knows he's full of shit, but that's part of the charm--his stories are absurd, theatrical, and irresistibly entertaining.
Soft folk music hums through the overhead speakers, its gentle tempo guiding my hands as I measure out coffee beans with deliberate care. The aroma of roasted earth rises with each scoop, comforting and familiar.
Across the room, a young woman watches me. Her gaze is calm, curious, a soft smile playing across her lips. I offer a subtle nod and gesture toward an empty seat at the bar. She hesitates, shy at first, then rises and crosses the room just as I dump the freshly ground beans into the French press.
I set it down between us. She leans in, eyes intent, as I stir in the hot water and set the timer to four and a half minutes.
I pour a little at first to allow the coffee to bloom. The aroma deepens and fills the empty space between us as we share a quiet smile, choosing silence over small talk so as not to interrupt the storyteller's rhythm.
Then the rest of the water. The grounds swirl, dark ink folding into glass, hypnotic and slow.
4:00 - I glance up now and then. She watches the steam rise, eyes half-lidded. I wish I knew her name. I wish I'd met her before this moment.
2:00 - Our eyes meet, and this time they linger. There's mischief in hers--a spark that catches in my chest. My heart flutters. I look away, smiling, and reach for two cups.
0:30 - Almost time. I reach for the plunger... and so does she.
Our fingers brush. Time stutters. Her touch is soft, grounding, and for a moment I don't want to move. How could a stranger make me feel so... smitten?
0:00 - The timer beeps. It's time.
I press the plunger down slowly, letting the thick, dark brew separate from the grounds and settle. We watch as it pours into the first mug; rich, dark amber, flowing like silk. I'm entranced by the motion, the rhythm of it.
Then it stops.
The stream cuts off. Mid-flow.
Only one mug filled.
Did I not make enough?
"I'm sorry I thought I..."
I close my eyes in disbelief, then look up.
She's gone.
The laughter; gone.
The bar, the buzz, the soft music; all of it.
I'm home. In my kitchen. Alone.
No beautiful stranger.          
No storyteller.
No warmth. No glances.
Just me. My coffee.
And the low hum of folk music playing through my earbuds.
Alone. Again.