My friend lived in a charming old town, with narrow cobblestone streets, antique shops, bookstores, family-owned restaurants that promised a personalised dining experience and most importantly a typical old-fashioned town square where the locals gathered to relax. Though this place is believed to have a rich history, there were no historic landmarks or museums that showcased the town’s glorious past. On the way to her home, I fell in love with the beautiful parks and green spaces that offered a peaceful retreat from the bustling streets and couldn’t help but notice the happiness that radiated on the faces of the people living there.
As I was blissfully wandering through the street a wooden signboard that read “Prose&Coffee” in elegant typography on the front of a cafe caught my eyes. The mention of coffee did not intrigue me, for I am a true tea addict, but the word “Prose” held my attention firmly. I wondered if this was a literary cafe, and as I approached the entrance, my intuition was proven correct. The atmosphere of a cafe was warm and inviting, with soft lighting, comfortable seating, and a relaxed vibe. The available books including bestsellers and classics to niche genres and local authors were displayed on a shelf and I saw satisfied customers reading in serenity, with cups of coffee by their side. I pushed the door open and made my way to a seat wondering whether they had chamomile tea on their menu. I have developed this newfound love for chamomile tea with a touch of honey, the dried flowers floating on the surface, its soothing properties and floral taste. I was yearning for one at that moment.
A friendly waiter approached me with a menu and handed me one. It was a vintage paper with the menu items typed out using a typewriter, and it sure had a classic touch to it. I stared at the beauty of the paper that looked like it aged over time, momentarily forgetting to check what was written on it until the waiter cleared his throat. I suddenly skimmed through the menu and looked at him, ready to place the order.
“I was wondering if it’s possible to get a cup of chamomile tea, even though it’s not listed on the menu?” I politely asked and waited for him to say no. I was processing why my brain came up with that strange demand when I made up my mind to order a cappuccino when I did not see chamomile tea on the menu.
“I apologize, but unfortunately, we do not have chamomile tea available at the moment. However, we do have a variety of other teas that you might enjoy. Would you like me to recommend some alternatives?” he replied with a smile.
“No worries, I’ll go for a cup of cappuccino with almond milk, less form and no additional sweeteners. And could you please make it warm?” I asked.
“Sure, I can do that.” he said and left.
I saw an old copy of John Milton’s “Paradise Lost” on the bookshelf and suddenly recollected one of the epic poems I learnt from it for my semester exam a few years ago. One of my mother’s friends, an English professor once asked me to read that book and promised me that I would love it. He was right, I thoroughly enjoyed the one poem I learnt from it in college and even had a spirited discussion about its themes with my friends during the lunch break. Overcome with nostalgia, I felt a pull towards the shelf, and with a sense of joy, I reached out and took the book in my hands. But a girl with the prettiest curls I’ve seen appeared out of nowhere and asked me whether she could have it; I smiled and gave the book to her.
After a few minutes, she came to my table and asked me if she could sit there. Anticipating the solitude I would have to endure until my friend arrived, I smiled and said yes. Curiously, she began flipping through the dusty pages of the book, started coughing, closed it and signalled the waiter to bring her some water. She gulped down the water as quickly as she could, cleared her throat, took a deep breath and smiled at me.
“I’m going to get this tattoo removed from my hand today, I can’t believe that I got tired of it just after three years. Getting this tattoo was not a random decision, I badly wanted this one for a long time.” She said this and showed me her monarch butterfly tattoo adorned with the words “carpe diem” encircling it.
“Carpe diem, seize the day, and did you do justice to your tattoo in the past three years?” I asked.
She chuckled, “Ummm, I guess I didn’t. But that doesn’t bother me, what bothers me is my dislike towards it. Why do you think that I started hating something that I’ve loved and wanted for so many years?”she asked.
“Why do you think that most students in your class hate Sociology and want to pursue something instead?” I replied to her question with another question.
“Whoa, whoa, how did you know all of that”? she looked surprised.
“Well, your ID card states that you are a third-year Sociology student and your name is Evelyn. And yes, more than half of the students in my class regretted their decision to join for a literature degree by the beginning of the third year, so I simply guessed” I said.
She was impressed and gave me a lovely smile. “But why, why do we do that?” she asked.
“End of History Illusion” I replied.
“What’s that?” she asked me with curious eyes.
“We tend to think of our current selves as the finished product, and we assume that our attitudes, values, and preferences will remain constant in the future. But that’s not true, we often undergo significant personal growth and change throughout our lives. End of History illusion in simple words should be, humans underestimating the amount of personal change they will experience in the future. It’s a cognitive bias. Failure to accept this hinders personal growth and limits us from pursuing new opportunities or embracing change.”I replied.
Evelyn was convinced by the explanation I gave her. She paused for a few seconds and said, “So that is the reason why we change our hobbies, career paths and relationships. It’s not that easy to remain satisfied with something for the rest of our lives?”
“Sometimes, when we gain more experience and encounter new opportunities, our priorities may change. When I was in college I couldn’t imagine becoming a teacher. I always wanted to be a writer. But after five years of college, I started my career as a teacher. My past self would not agree with what I’m doing now, but I’m enjoying every bit of it. Now, I barely think about my plan to become a writer. What I’m trying to say is, don’t overthink your decision to get the tattoo removed. Personal growth and change are ongoing processes.” I said.
She nonchalantly listened to everything I said and nodded her head in approval. “As I grew older I understood that many people associate tattoos with a lack of professionalism. I don’t want people to judge me. And I also understood that, if I believe in carpe diem, instead of inking it on my skin, I can always live by it,” she said.
“Wow! That’s a sign of maturity. Also, I hope you know that ageing can stretch and distort a tattoo. And that’s not pretty.” I told her.
She giggled.
As I kept talking, I did not notice that an hour passed. For a minute I wondered what took the waiter so much time to bring me what I ordered and resumed immersing myself in the lines of the book. After a considerable stretch, I saw the waiter approaching my table with a tray. He brought me chamomile tea instead of the requested cappuccino; no wonder it took him so long. I did not bother to ask any questions regarding how he procured it but expressed my gratitude with a big thank you. I poured the steaming tea from the kettle and separated the dry flowers using the strainer. My friend has told me several stories of the exceptional kindness of the locals in her hometown, and while I had previously been skeptical, I was now convinced. I realised that they are kind without expecting anything in return. Now, I had a story to tell her.
“So, the end of history illusion is the reason why my mom wants to divorce my dad whom she rushed to marry,” Evelyn spoke her mind. Her eyes became watery.
She looked at me. There was a lump in my throat. I couldn’t swallow. I couldn’t speak a word.
Melanie Ann George🌼
Melanie Ann 