I met God at a dingy downtown cafe. He sat at a corner table beneath a flickering fluorescent light, swirling a black coffee as if it were a crystal ball.
He looked tired. Older than time. Hoodie, sandals, Bluetooth headset blinking red.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, breathless.
He didn’t look up. “You’re always late. Humanity, I mean.”
I sat. The waitress came by. I ordered a fair-trade oat milk latte because I’m an ethical consumer, obviously. He didn’t bother ordering, His cup never emptied.
“So,” I began, acting casual, “war, famine, climate collapse, children in sweatshops making the shoes we wear to protest injustice”
He snorted. “Ah, yes. The daily news cycle. It’s like your species loves suffering, as long as you can hashtag it.”
I forced a laugh. “You gave us free will.”
“Don’t pin this on me,” He said, tapping his temple. “You wanted choice. I gave you the entire menu. You keep ordering genocide with a side of apathy.”
Outside, a homeless man was arguing with a cop who kept one hand on his holster. No one inside looked. Except me. And Him.
“You could stop it.”
“I could,” He admitted, swirling the coffee. “But then I’d be a dictator and you hate those.”
He gestured at the cafe. The barista was crying in the corner, checking hospital bills on her cracked phone between orders.
“You think I don’t see?” He said softly. “I see everything. I am everything.”
“Do you care?” I challenged.
He blinked slowly. “I’m not sure you know what that word means. Care is easy when you can switch it off at closing time. But this,” He tapped his chest. “This is permanent.”
A man at another table sound off loudly about his meritocracy while ignoring the janitor mopping beneath him.
“Why don’t you intervene?” I asked.
God sighed. “Every time I did, you built a religion around it and killed each other over the interpretation.”
I leaned back, defeated.
“Prayer then?” I asked.
He made air quotes. “‘Thoughts and prayers’, your favourite currency for avoiding real change.”
I fell silent.
He sipped his coffee. “You know what would really change things?”
“What?”
“Compassion. Action. But they’re hard. Costly. You prefer moral outrage. It’s cheaper.”
My phone buzzed. News alert: “CEOs pledge to fight climate change by 2050.” I put it face down.
He smirked. “Promises for tomorrow. Pollution today.”
We sat quietly. The world outside was grey, drizzling.
Finally, I asked, “Is there hope?”
God’s eyes glowed for a moment. He didn’t smile.
“That’s up to you,” he said.
He stood, leaving coins on the table, ancient, rusted, no longer in circulation.
As he walked out, the door swung open to a street that was every street at once, dusty village roads, neon-lit megacities, war-torn ruins.
I sat alone with my latte, which had gone cold.
Somewhere in the distance, church bells rang, a child cried, a protest chant rose, and the cafe lights flickered, then steadied.
I sipped the coffee. It tasted bitter.
I couldn’t tell if it was the roast. Or me.
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