Wisdom is a Cappucino

“A small cappuccino with a half sugar, please.”

You remembered, she thought as she looked at me.

“And a large flat white for me.”

$3.95 for the cap and I can’t remember what I paid for mine. But I do recall the wisdom that cappucino bought .

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Our paths had crossed yet again on of all days Valentine’s Day. We’d spoken, covered the world and everything during a five minute conversation. Until the pause.

“Let’s catch up for a cuppa, ” she said, so we swapped numbers. My invite was by voice mail and her acceptance was by text.

So we met. I motioned to buy her a muffin as well but she gently shook her head and avoided my eye. Only later I realised most probably she had skipped her lunch and didn’t want to tell me. Except I knew. And she knew I knew.

Two coffees, no muffin, one unstable round metal table. Two metal chairs that scraped on any provocation. Usually that was enough distraction so nothing would be heard. That and any extraneous noise, traffic, people talking, walk signs clattering all faded into a silent background.

Because everything seemed to be said. Shared the non-shareable things. Ex-partners. How not to do marriage counselling. Even finances. And of course, the non-disclosure rules apply to all that.

And as we talked we realised that we had had similar experiences but they weren’t exactly the same.

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Which elicited this diamond.

As she said, “Just because you’ve had the same experience as another doesn’t mean you’ve experienced it the same way.”

Which I still recall and refer to frequently. Especially when people try to impose their similar experiences upon me. Or when I’m tempted to assume my experience was the only wisdom they ever needed.

One response to “Wisdom is a Cappucino”

  1. […] But the most positive example was a person who also told me her autobiography. And learnt some of mine. But left me with more wisdom than I could pay for. It cost me a cappuccino. […]

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