Sitting Down for a Coffee with my Younger Self

I can't seem to get my
right heel to stop tapping
a rhythm to the jazz
that's playing in the
old madrilena cafe.  Coltrane,
maybe.  Heavy on tenor
sax.

Looking across this
big room, I'm trying 
to guess which one is
him.  Coltrane is playing,
and the flying notes 
are making a crazed 
prelude to this crazy
meeting.

There he is, there I am.
Oh my God how young am
I? 19 or 20? My
skin looks different.
I catch myself waving
to myself, and pull my
hand down.

There he is.  He just
waved.  Or I just
waved.  Weird.  Oh 
my God, I'm so bald.
I look like Dad.

"Can I buy you a coffee?"
I ask.  "It seems only
right."

"Sure.  Thanks."  I'm
patting my pockets,
aware I have no
money and will need 
to swing by the AmEx 
office by Plaza 
de las Cortes across
the street.

"Cafe con leche?"

"Sure."

We both look around the
room, in lieu of speaking
for a few minutes.  No
one seems to pay any mind
to us, or to this grand
experiment.  For all they
know, I am the father,
and my younger self is
the son.

"So," I say to 
break the uncomfortable
silence.  "I go bald."

"Sad to say, but
yes.  Enjoy that
hair while you
can."

I run my fingers
through my long,
feathered hair
absently.  My older 
self lets out a
sigh.

"There's so much advice I
could give you.  About how
to avoid heartache and all
that."  I stop, because my
younger self doesn't
appear to be listening.
He's checking out a girl who
looks to be about his
age, maybe a little
younger, with Audrey Hepburn
bangs and a snaggle-tooth
smile.

My older self is saying 
something that seems
to be making him
emotional, like he's
about to cry.  I missed
it, however, because I
have locked eyes with an
incredibly sexy woman I've
seen here before.  I think 
she works next door as a docent in 
the Circulo de Bellas Artes.
I'm shy about it, but
definitely want to hold
her gaze.

"Be happy," I say, my
voice breaking.  "Just.
Be.  Happy."

"It's okay," I tell myself,
because I seem so down.
Then I become afraid.
"Why are you so -- why am 
I so -- why are we so sad?"

"No, no, not sad," I
answer quickly, because
I can see I've frightened
him.  I'm wiping tears
away.  "Just full.  My
heart, our heart, is so
full.  Please enjoy this.
Enjoy every second of
it.  It goes by so
fast."  Trying to sound
wise, but feeling only
desperate and old.

My older self is 
giving me advice about 
enjoying my life.  Not
sure what he knows, what 
I've been through by then.
Not sure I want to know.

"She's leaving," I say,
pointing to the snaggle-
tooth docent.
"Why don't you go talk to her? Find
out her name."

I get up -- too quickly,
probably -- patting my
pockets again, as though looking
to throw in some
money for the bill.

"Don't worry," I say.
"I've got this."

"Thank you," I say.
"For the coffee."

"Sure thing," I say,
watching as I
move cautiously over
to the girl.

"Hola.  Como te llamas?"
I ask.