The Second Coffee

The second date with Esther happened at the same café terrace near Bumbly’s house—the one already filed in his head as easy. Same sun-warmed tables. Same open doors letting espresso drift into the street. Same gentle relief of not having to plan or explain access.

That part mattered. Familiar places let the body relax before the heart even tried.

They laughed more this time. Conversation skipped faster, less careful. Esther teased him about his terrible movie opinions; Bumbly defended explosions with mock sincerity. She ordered the pastry he’d recommended last time. He noticed—and it landed warmly.

It was fun. Genuinely.

And still, somewhere between the second coffee and the shared joke that lingered half a second too long, Bumbly felt it: the movement wasn’t forward. Not backward either. Just… level.

There was no awkwardness. No misstep. No sudden distance. Esther was kind, attentive, present—but the energy stayed light, safely parked in friendliness. The spark didn’t lean in. It didn’t test the edges. It didn’t ask for more.

Bumbly recognized it the way he recognized weather before clouds showed up. He didn’t try to steer it. He didn’t push. He let the date be what it was: pleasant, complete, contained.

When they said goodbye, it was warm and unforced. No promises floated between them. No third date quietly scheduled itself into existence. The terrace returned to its usual rhythm almost immediately.

Rolling home minutes later, Bumbly wasn’t crushed. He wasn’t even sharply disappointed. Just thoughtful.

Some dates ended loudly.
Some faded politely.

This one taught him something quieter: chemistry wasn’t effort, and kindness wasn’t momentum. You could enjoy someone and still recognize that the road didn’t continue—and that noticing early was its own small mercy.

He kept the memory anyway.
Good coffee. Easy laughter.
And the calm certainty that he hadn’t missed a sign—he’d read it correctly.