The Café Where You Can Order Someone Else’s Memories

"First Kiss" (1997) – $12 (Notes of cherry cola and nervous sweat)

"Last Summer Before College" (2009) – $15 (Hints of sunscreen and recklessness)

"The One That Got Away" (Varies) – Market Price

The barista, a woman with silver-streaked hair and a tattoo of an hourglass on her wrist, slid a porcelain cup toward me. "You look like someone who’s searching."

I hesitated. "How does this work?"

She smiled. "We extract memories from donated fragments—old love letters, ticket stubs, forgotten mixtapes. Brew them into something… drinkable."

Memory #1: A Love Story in Three Sips

I ordered "Wedding Day" (1985).

The first sip tasted like champagne and jasmine—joy.

The second like a storm rolling in—doubt.

The third like salt—tears on a honeymoon pillow.

By the time I set the cup down, my cheeks were wet. The memory wasn’t mine, but my heart didn’t know that.

The barista wiped the counter. "She left him at the airport. Never saw him again."

Memory #2: The Boy Who Remembered Me

I came back every Tuesday, chasing ghosts in espresso cups.

Then he walked in—tall, rumpled, smelling like rain and déjà vu.

"You’re drinking my memory," he said, nodding at my cup.

I froze. "Which one?"

"First Kiss. Jenny Parker. 1997." His thumb brushed the scar on his lip. "I bit her by accident."

The barista smirked. "We don’t reveal donors… usually."

Memory #3: The Truth in the Roast

Turns out, he was a regular too. We traded stories between stolen sips:

His father’s last fishing trip (tasted like bourbon and unfinished apologies)

My mother’s lost lullaby (honey and hospital antiseptic)

One night, he ordered "The One That Got Away"—and pushed the cup to me.

"Drink it," he whispered.

The flavor exploded: library dust, his cologne, the exact moment he saw me across the café and remembered.

The Catch

Memories fade when shared too often.

By winter, the "First Kiss" brew tasted flat. His father’s voice in the "Fishing Trip" blend grew muffled.

"They’re disappearing," I panicked.

The barista sighed. "That’s the cost. Every sip erases the original a little."

He gripped my hand. "Then let’s make new ones."

Epilogue: The Last Order

We left our own memories behind:

A napkin with "First Fight" scribbled in coffee rings

A movie stub for "Our First Date"

A single "Goodbye" (unbrewed, for someone else to discover)

The bell chimed as we exited. Behind us, the chalkboard updated:

"New Today: ‘The Couple Who Rewrote Time’ – Priceless."

"Would you drink a stranger’s memory? What would you hope to taste?"

Want a prequel about the barista’s past? Let me know! ☕