Coffee and the Girl
Six-thirty and the early risers are here. A muted crowd at this hour, taking their coffee with the reverence of a communion cup. Hands in prayer around their source of comfort, transfusing heat into frozen fingers. I take the orders in a steady flow, waiting for the lull which arrives as predictably as any alarm. A moment of reprieve between the polite larks and the noisy crows who demand speed and any number of variations on their morning brew.
A girl on the street catches my attention. Her eyes, first. The rapid glance, the furrow of her brow. Her hands thrust deep into pockets; bare, purple skin exposed above. The fabric of her coat looks threadbare as well as being too small, inadequate, to cover her spindly limbs. She disappears to the right.
Then back again. The look. Hungry or thirsty? A tiny flick of tongue across her lips. Then gone. I wait, debating, peeved by any other customers who come my way. When free again, I glimpse her bending on the ground, tugging. The coat has risen slightly. Her calves are bare.
She’s back. Staring at something in her bare hands. Something blue. I can see the smile blooming even though my view of her is side on. An upward crescent of lip that cancels out the glistening around her eye. I cock my head and smile, whilst knowing I am invisible to her.
The crescent lip flattens as she takes a step backwards. The only part of her that remains is a strip of worn cloth that peeps down the edge of the window frame. The strip slides downwards. A noisy crow arrives wanting a version of coffee that requires an essay of instructions.
As I take his money, the noisy crow continues his phone call, then moves to one side. A pale face materialises, staring beyond my shoulder at the backboard behind. The ten-dollar note rolls between a tight thumb and forefinger. A queue forms.
The frown distorts a face that should be pretty. She blinks rapidly, between the chalkboard and some image known only to her mind’s eye. The tussle looks anguished. At intervals, her eyes flick towards the banknote.
‘Are you ordering?’ demands the man behind. I glare but it makes no difference. She skips sideways, thrusts the note into her pocket and turns towards the door. Those calves are red and swollen.
‘Your coffee’s ready, madam,’ I yell after her, as I grab the last order, repositioning the slip on the baristas slide. ‘I should have told you to wait over here.’
She walks on.
‘Miss, Miss!’ I yell again. ‘Your order.’
She doesn’t turn.
Ignoring stony stares, I grab the takeaway cup and pursue her to the door. ‘Here. It’s yours. Enjoy.’ She stretches a hand sideways, takes hold of the coffee and with head bowed, nods a thank you. Mesmerised, I watch her turn and walk away, her blue face now pink with embarrassment.
THE END