coffee with me

I met my younger self for coffee today. 

She got there fifteen minutes early, and stayed in her car until time. I showed up just a couple minutes early, but looked at the menu already.

She isn't sure what to order and worries about the cost. She doesn't say anything, but I know what she's thinking; I try to pay but she declines. I swipe from a joint bank account that will never notice a coffee purchase. 

She drinks her hot mocha and I sip my iced vanilla latte. We split my fruit pastry as I know we both have a sweet tooth. 

I forget to pray before we eat, and now she's worried about my soul. She's worried about hers too though. I'm not ready to talk religion with her yet. 

Her hair is in a tight pony tail, her clothes are tight fitting and bright, and her eyes are wide. My soft curls are in a loose claw clip, my clothes are muted autumn tones that bring out my content demeanor. Her hair is long. So is mine, but only over the last year or so. 

She asks where my boots and country accent are, and my Vans and city English aren't sure how to respond. We just met and already I seem "highfalutin" to her. She's skeptical of her future. 

She tells me about all the money she's saving, how she can't wait to move out of our mother's house, how she hopes to keep working at the gas station restaurant to make a better living, and maybe, just maybe, one day travel somewhere cool. 

I tell her about my college degrees, my house, job, and all the places I travel. 

She tells me her favorite Taylor Swift song from the debut album. I don't tell her I spent more money than her high school savings on the Eras Tour. 

She asks about the children she wants. I talk about my husband. She wonders if I am happy and I assure her we have more personality now than in our whole lives. We don't have children, but I'm finding myself. 

She is confident: she is everything she will ever need and she will pull herself through. I tell her she is right, but make a reminder to talk to my counselor about this later. 

She shows me the tattoo she designed, and I'm grateful we never got that one. I tell her it's cool anyway. 

She talks about her best friend, Suzanne. I do too. We got tattoos with Suzanne in Europe. I don't tell younger me about the tattoos that we do have though - she doesn't want the style I have yet. 

I want to ask her what her dreams are, but I know she doesn't have any (except for a vague desire to travel). She's a content flower that will bloom where planted. But I have dreams. It took me thirty years to get them. 

I hope we get coffee again soon.