Cuban Coffee Kisses | Besos de Café Cubano
"Every morning she makes his cortadito just right, and every morning he falls a little more in love"
Cuban Coffee Kisses
Besos de Café Cubano
The ventanita was my favorite part of the day.
"Un cortadito, por favor," I'd say every morning at 7:15.
"You know, you can order something different," Yolanda would say while she poured.
"Why would I?" I'd take the tiny cup. "Perfection doesn't need variety."
"The coffee or the company?"
"Both."
I'd been coming to this café for six months. Six months of cortaditos, six months of Yolanda's smile, six months of conversations that lasted longer each time.
"You're going to make me late for work," I said one morning, forty minutes into talking.
"Then stop coming so early."
"Then I'd miss the quiet time." I leaned on the counter. "When it's just us."
"Is that why you come at 7:15?"
"One of many reasons."
She was the owner's daughter—born in Hialeah, raised on café con leche and Miami heat. She knew everyone in the neighborhood by name and took coffee seriously enough to argue about it.
"You're adding too much milk," she scolded a new employee once.
"It's just coffee."
"There's no such thing as 'just coffee.'" She took over the machine. "Coffee is culture. Coffee is history. Coffee is love in a cup."
She caught me watching her and blushed.
"Why don't you ever ask me out?" she said one Tuesday.
I nearly dropped my cortadito. "What?"
"You've been coming here six months. You stay and talk. You bring me flowers on my birthday—"
"How did you know those were from me?"
"Because you were watching through the window like a stalker." She grinned. "So why not just ask?"
"I didn't want to ruin this. What we have."
"What do we have?"
"Something I look forward to every day," I admitted. "Something I don't want to lose."
"And you think asking me out would ruin it?"
"I've ruined things before."
"Me too." She reached across the counter and took my hand. "But I'd rather risk ruining it than spend another six months wondering what if."
"Yolanda..."
"Ask me. Right now."
"Will you go to dinner with me?"
"No."
"No?"
"I want breakfast. Tomorrow. Here." She smiled. "On the other side of the counter."
"You want to have breakfast in your own café?"
"I want to have breakfast with you. Location doesn't matter."
Breakfast became lunch became dinner became every meal we could share. She'd cook me ropa vieja in her tiny apartment, and I'd wash dishes while she told me about her dreams of opening her own place someday.
"Why wait?" I asked.
"Money. Experience. Fear."
"I have savings. You have experience. Fear is manageable."
"Are you offering to invest in my dream?"
"I'm offering to build it with you."
She kissed me like I'd handed her the sun.
"You can't just say things like that," she gasped.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm falling in love with you, and it's terrifying."
"I fell six months ago." I cupped her face. "I've just been waiting for you to catch up."
We opened the café a year later—Nuestro Café, a bigger version of the ventanita where we'd met. She made the coffee; I handled the books. We argued about recipes and agreed about everything else.
"One cortadito, por favor," I say every morning, even now.
"You know you could order something different," she says, playing along.
"Perfection doesn't need variety."
She hands me the tiny cup and steals a kiss.
"The coffee or the company?"
"Both. Always both."
Cuban coffee kisses—strong, sweet, essential.
Just like her.