Five years ago, I had just moved from Geneva back to Cape Town. Crawling through the shards of a broken marriage, I came home to regain some control of my life.
I rented a summer bungalow on Llandudno beach - summer bungalows in Cape Town are cheap in the wet winters. During the day, I worked in the city, trying to scrape together a business. In the evenings I'd sit on my porch, sip whiskey, and listen to the tides.
Most mornings, on my way into the city, I'd stop at the last bend on the coastal road into Camps Bay. There, in a makeshift parking area, was a man who made coffee for a living. On top of a trailer, he'd built a mobile shop that served the motorists coming into the city. His long blond hair was bunched under a leathery hat. And always, by his side, he had an old black dog of uncertain breed, that shuffled from customer to customer, sniffing their legs and licking their fingers.
I never knew the barista's name. Asking it seemed inappropriate. You're here for coffee. I give you coffee, you give me money. That was the nature of our relationship.
Once I asked him what else he did for a living. "I get here before sunrise," he said. "I make coffee. I check where the best surf is. And when the customers dry up, I pack up and hit the waves until the sun goes down."
Often, sitting on my porch, in the dark, I'd think about the barista. I imagined him emerging from the sea, the dog waiting on the beach to greet him. Then they'd go home, light a fire and turn in early.
My own life was so complicated; his was so simple. His days were filled with the two things he loved: the dog and the sea. I'm sure I romanticised it, but he gave me hope.
Over the past few years I've often thought of him. I've moved back to Europe, remarried, and am filled with the joy of second chances.
Last month, I found myself back in Cape Town and, of course, had to go and see if I could still get a coffee on the edge of the sea.
As I approached the bend, I was relieved to spot his trailer. It wasn't very busy. It was almost 9am and he must have been close to calling it a day. I didn't expect him to remember me so I attempted a howzit that was somewhere between formal and familiar. He nodded and asked what I wanted.
"Americano, black and bitter," I said.
I looked around. My heart was beginning to sink because there was no sign of the dog.
"The dog?" I said.
"He's gone," he said matter of factly.
"Jeez, I'm sorry bru," I said.
"He was in too much pain." He handed me my cup and I took a sip. "He got so sick he couldn't get up anymore. So I started feeding the bugger rump steak every day. The day he refused the steak I knew it was time."
There was just silence. And the sound of the surf rolling in and out.
He said: "I got a cat now. Well, it's not my cat. It only shows up after dinner. Suits me. I don't have to buy food or pay vet bills. But every night, it pops in through the window, crawls under my blanket and lies next to me."
I smiled. I finished my coffee and nodded as if I'd see him the next day for another.
As I got in the car, I felt sad for the dog. But happy about the cat. Mostly, I felt relieved that the barista still makes coffee, that he still scans the ocean every day, looking for the breaks. And that he stays warm at night.
I thought of my new life. I thought of his. The love comes in and out. Every day. And that's all we need to know.
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