We were drinking coffee that night. He and I had both bought drinks, and we walked beside each other slowly, sipping and talking in a way we’d never sipped or talked before.

“Can I have a taste of yours?” he asked.

     His eyes bore into mine rather than at the cup in my hands, but I gave it to him and watched as his lips touched the spot mine just were. I had ordered a latte and it was so warm, filling. He glanced at me before handing my cup back. We took three strides and he spoke again.

“Do you want to try mine?”

     I nodded. I took the cold cup from his fingers, which touched mine gently, and let the condensation drip onto my palm. Iced coffee. Then I took a drink, and he watched me as my lips touched the spot his just were. It was cold in a way that made goosebumps appear on the back of my neck, and it tasted bitter, much heavier than the light, almost airy taste of mine.

     We didn’t talk much after that. We did, however, kiss. Our lips touched each another in such a bittersweet way. We were fire and ice. We were the guise of our coffees. And maybe that’s why we are so confused now.

     He was iced. Cold. Heavy. He felt something that he didn’t particularly want to feel, and he felt it in a way that he already didn’t understand. I was warm. Passionate. Light. I felt something comforting but I didn’t particularly want to feel it for him, so I already didn’t understand, either.

And then we went and mixed flavors.

     So now he is a mixture of iced and warm, and I am a mixture of warm and iced, and none of it made sense before, but now, everything is so much more complex. I’m used to fire and he is used to ice; neither of us knows what to do since they’ve become mixed.

Now I’m just left to wonder, what would have happened if we both ordered a warm drink that night?