A Wake-Up Call in Purple

The sun stood at a sharp angle, glaring into his car. It was morning, and Dennis was on his way to work. It was the same every morning, and he could just manage to stop by the Café on the Square for a cup of coffee and a croissant. His usual breakfast. It was easy and convenient for someone alone.

Five years ago, his life had come to a halt when he lost his girlfriend in a car accident. Since then, life had consisted of memories and quick fixes, and Dennis had become an automated robot without feelings. He got up, went to work, drove home, and usually picked up a pizza on the way. The television was his friend until he went to bed.

Sometimes Dennis wondered if life was supposed to be more than this. But he was afraid of betraying Michelle, fearing she would be angry with him in the afterlife. He didn’t want to tarnish her memory. How long would the celibacy of grief keep him trapped? He had lost track of time.

Dennis was 45, a man in his prime. But he didn’t feel that way. He was slim, though more because he forgot to eat than anything else, and he couldn’t comfort-eat like others. He wasn’t into sports or going to the gym, as it would mean leaving their home, the memories, and the non-existent companionship. Clothes and hairstyle were barely maintained; only shaving was always perfect because Michelle had liked it best that way.

He stepped into the café's warm, coffee-scented, and welcoming atmosphere.

“Good morning, Dennis,” the barista said. “The usual?”

“Good morning, Charles, yes, please. I’ll take my usual spot,” Dennis replied.

He turned the corner to his almost usual seat, part of his morning ritual.

He stopped short. Someone was sitting there. A woman in a tightly fitted purple suit and a neat pillbox hat on her head, with a small veil down in front of her eyes. He couldn’t really see her face or guess her age, but he estimated around 40. Long, slender legs in dark nylons. High-heeled shoes in matching purple suede. She had style.

“May I sit here?” he asked, unwilling to give up his morning ritual.

“Yes, go ahead,” came a dark, soft voice with a hint of a whisper.

Dennis sat down and felt the woman's gaze sliding appraisingly over him. He didn’t know her.

Charles came with coffee and a croissant. “Here you go.”

He turned to the woman and asked, “Do you need anything, Michelle?”

Dennis had just brought the cup to his lips when he heard Charles’ words. It couldn’t be possible, could it? His Michelle? No, no, she was dead, but something in him suddenly sprang to high alert. His pulse pounded rapidly. His hands shook, and he spilled his coffee.

“Oh dear,” said the woman. “Have you seen a ghost?” Her voice had a playful tone.

“No, no,” Dennis stammered. “I’m sorry, I… I don’t know what came over me.”

“Oh, I think you do, Dennis,” said the woman.

She knew his name. How on earth could she know him?

She continued, “For five years, you have tried to push it all away and twist the truth. It has to end. You have a life to live, not just throw away. I know everything. She was like a shot of espresso—scalding hot and strong, the one you built your life around. I’m her cousin, and yes, we share the same name. She always spoke of you in the highest terms. Now I’ll be your espresso. Wake up, drink me!”