Race for Coffee

The day awakens before morning breaks behind the horizon here in San Luis. The fishermen are already on their way back as the mauve light of dawn begins to outline their blurring silhouettes in the gliding boat. It’s 4:30 a.m. María sees the seven-headed creature approaching amongst the snaking fins of the mackerel, a silvery and shining vision; though her eyes can’t fool her, she likes to dream even if her fantasies become as terrifying as to transform the seven fishermen into a seven-headed sea creature on the hunt.
      On the shore, the stones burn with heat as the glowing wood warms the clay pot filled with simmering water. Maria takes her eyes off the creature, fixes her hair and blouse, shakes the sand out of her skirt and takes a handful of ground coffee from the sack. The filter is a rag tied to an iron pot that has long lost its bottom; the handle has also been improvised, probably from some part that fell off the old wall at the back of the ranchería. These things aren’t really important to María; she minds that the coffee is good and hot and that the cane honey she’s made earlier is enough for everyone, especially for Enrique.
      The light is becoming clearer, revealing the infinite blue of the Caribbean Sea. The morning coffee is one of those eternal things, those that saw you born and will see you and your children die. As long as there are fish in the sea, there will be a María ready at dawn. But María doesn’t want to be the one that life tries so hard to impose on her; she wants to leave for the city with one of the men. They were allowed to leave; the old ones would approve of them going to school, after which they’d go to work in Caracas, the capital city, under the supervision of a relative who just as them had managed to escape life on the eastern coast and all the misery. If that man was Enrique, it’d be perfect, but María doesn’t limit her options; when the boat docks at the shore and the men rush to her, she smiles just a little and watches them with some disdain, just to make it clear—or not to make it clear. It’s been like this every morning since Maria turned eight and became already too old to be idle; from a very early age, her mother had taught her to shun men and put them in their place. Today’s Maria's eighteenth birthday; she’s ready to leave as soon as Enrique or any other man proposes to her. But men empty her coffee pot today, again, while she’s still waiting. Sweeter than ever, the last drop of cane honey slips into Enrique's coffee and she smiles broadly at him. This was their special moment; every morning, Enrique had to tie up the bollard boat, while the others competed to get to María first, but her eyes were always on him. She looked forward to that moment when they’d be alone with the last cup of coffee and the last bit of sweetness.
      Now Enrique pulls a mother-of-pearl shell from his left pocket; he’s carved Maria's name on it. "Happy birthday, Marita," he congratulates her kindly." How pretty! "She replies while looking directly and intensely into his eyes, the same eyes that poke into the pot. Hopelessly, she’s waiting for Enrique to tell her that she is as pretty or prettier than the shell, or waiting for some awkward compliment of those that men pay her as she serves them the hot coffee and treats them to some of his cane honey spiced with cloves and cinnamon: “My beautiful flower,” “My coconut pie,” “My peanut brittle”. Should the stupidest compliment come out of Enrique’s mouth, it would not be stupid but beautiful. However, that never happens. "Is there another little bit of coffee left for me? I'm really sleepy and I have to pack".
      Sour surprise. It embedded itself like a dagger in her gut. "Sure! Take mine." She replied as she handed him her still steaming, untouched cup of coffee. It was a little bitter as it was the last cup and none of the sweet had been left for her; she had given it all, the last little bit to Enrique. He received it gratefully and left without further ado. Maria didn't really realize he had left; she just stood there, looking at the infinite blue of the sky and watching it merge with the sea, as if the coast was completely closed, as if there was no way to cross it.
      She woke up with a fever the next day. Her grandmother Estivalina, a skinny woman of ninety three with the energy of impossible youth, let her rest. She nursed her and covered for her at the coffee stand. María watched in a long epiphany as the fishermen competed to get to Estivalina, to the hot coffee. “My beautiful flower,” “My coconut pie,” “My peanut brittle”.
      At some point she seemed to hear Enrique, but it was another of her fantasies, since Enrique was already gone.