Through a Glass, Dimly

We don’t see things as they are; we see things as we are.

Illustration by the Author

The windows of Café Vivaldi had already begun to fog with the contrast between the autumn chill outside and the warmth of bodies and brewing coffee within. It was one of the holdout bastions of old New York still operating in the West Village — a place where the ghosts of artists and writers past seemed to linger in the worn wooden chairs and the soft murmur of conversation that filled the air like music.

My friend and I had just settled into our corner table, the aroma of freshly poured espresso rising between us in delicate wisps of steam. The café hummed with its usual afternoon energy — the soft clinking of cups against saucers, the whir of the espresso machine, the muted conversations of other patrons creating that perfect café atmosphere that had drawn me here countless times before. But on this particular afternoon, an innocent comment from my friend (one that would have gone unnoticed, had it not touched on a personal hot button topic of mine) sent me into a negative thought loop.