The year was 1987, and I still remember that coffee in London as if it were yesterday. It was a Friday afternoon. Half a day at work had ended, and I was heading home. The clock read 2:30 pm, but the city felt like twilight—the sky heavy with dark clouds, a gentle drizzle painting the streets, and the temperature stubbornly clinging below 4°C.
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| Coffee In London On One Rainy Day: My Romantic Memories |
Coffee In London On One Rainy Day: My Romantic Memories
The air smelled of wet asphalt and distant smoke from chimneys, a scent that somehow made the city feel alive yet melancholic. I boarded the bus, half-listening to the murmur of passengers, my mind wandering to nothing in particular. The bus dropped me near my house, leaving a 2 km walk ahead. I was in my 30s, single, and a hopeless romantic—always in love with the idea of love, but never fortunate enough to find someone who felt like the one.
On most days, I avoided the small coffee shop near my home. But that afternoon, shivering in the cold drizzle, something inside me whispered: Why not?
The Unexpected Encounter
The coffee shop was warm, a cocoon against the chilly London weather. Soft amber lights reflected off the polished wooden tables. Hotel California hummed softly from the speakers, a song that carried memories from my school days.
I had just settled in with my coffee when she appeared. She entered with an umbrella in hand, shaking off droplets of rain, and my breath caught. She must have been around 23 or 25, and her presence made the room feel brighter. She smiled at me—just a glance, just a smile—but it sent a jolt straight through my chest.
Before I could think, she walked over. “May I join you?” she asked. How could I say no? I stood and offered her the chair, my hands awkwardly trembling.
She ordered a sandwich and coffee, insisting I order too. I tried to pay, but she only smiled—a mischievous, captivating smile that made me feel both bold and shy.
Minutes passed. Conversation flowed effortlessly, though I barely believed it was happening. I found myself spilling my story like a parrot: my job, my solitary life, my failed attempts at love. When I admitted I had never had a girlfriend, she laughed softly. Embarrassment tinged my cheeks, but her eyes sparkled with curiosity and genuine interest.
By the time we exchanged numbers, I felt an unfamiliar flutter of hope. Walking home, my mind replayed every word, every smile, every glance. Even when I closed my eyes that night, all I could see was her face.
Rain and Hope
A week later, the rainy season continued its slow dance over London. The sky hung low and gray, drizzle misting my coat as I approached the bus stand. My heart had pulled me back to the same coffee shop, almost instinctively.
I had just ordered my coffee when, as if the universe were playing a part, she walked in again. She spotted me instantly, smiled, and ordered exactly the same as before. My nerves were a tangle, but this time, the ice between us melted faster.
We talked for hours, more easily now, laughing and sharing stories. Finally, I mustered the courage to ask her to dinner. To my relief—and quiet amazement—she said yes.
Mission Accomplished
That evening, over candlelight in a cozy restaurant, our conversation drifted from work to family, from dreams to little fears. The connection I had longed for all my life was here, tangible and electric.
When I proposed, her hesitation lasted only a heartbeat. She glanced around, then back at me, and with a shy smile, she said yes.
That girl—the stranger with an umbrella on a rainy London afternoon—became my wife. And that small cup of coffee, shared in the drizzle of 1987, became the beginning of our forever.
