She works in my local cafe. She’s beautiful, sweet and friendly. I wonder would she ever go for me? I go to the cafe as much to see her as for the lovely smoky fresh coffee. Maybe if I talk to her while I’m making my order she will notice me. Maybe we could go on a date. But how do I make the transition from being a patron of the cafe to being of personal interest to her?
I put on my best jeans, a cool floral shirt too. I spray a little of the Hugo Boss on. The ad says that it drives women crazy. That might help me out. I’m a bald man so I put on my linen flat cap to cover it up. Women say they don’t care about men being bald but I know that’s not true. I read an opinion piece recently where the female author wrote about baldness in a way that suggested it was ugly. So that has stuck with me.
I look at myself in the mirror. I rub my hands over my head to make sure my ‘hair’ is in place, out of habit. I fix my flat cap.
The air is cold outside so I walk briskly to the cafe. When I open the door I catch a glimpse of blond hair behind the counter. She is working today so. There is no one else in the queue so I walk as nonchalantly as I can up to the front. She looks busy. It’s almost lunchtime. She’s under pressure.
“Hi, how are you,” I profer, with a smile.
“Hey, good to see you again!,” she says.
It was cold outside but it seems to be very warm in the cafe. The edges of my glasses are gathering moisture.
“Will you have a coffee?” she asks.
“Yeah that would be great, thanks. How are things?”
My glasses are now almost totally fogged up but I don’t want to take them off because I don’t like the way I look without them.
“Are you alright there,” she says.
“Oh yeah, grand. I can still see shapes”.
“Good, good,” she giggles. “You take milk, don’t you?”
“Milk would be great, thanks”.
What is she doing? She’s going to pour the milk in herself. This is one of my pet peeves. Why would anyone pour the milk in for you? The milk to coffee balance is imperative to a successful Americano. I reach out to stop her but there are no words coming to me. I can’t be that guy.
I can see her pouring bucket loads of milk into my coffee, a whole cow’s worth squeezed into my cup, destroying it forever.
“Is that enough milk?” she says.
(What you have just done has ruined my day)
“That’s perfect, thanks,” I say. “Any other news?” I ask, not that the conversation has been filled with news up to this point.
I’m now holding the scalding cup of coffee. The steam from the cup is rising and adding to the woes of my glasses. They have reached saturation point. Drips of moisture are falling from the frame back into the cup of coffee, creating a weather cycle. A separate ecosystem has developed between us.
“I’m moving to New York next week. I’ve finally secured a job over there so I’m really excited about that,” she says.
I can’t say anything. I try. But I can’t.
“Sorry, I have to clear up that table over there. But it was great to see you. Catch you soon”.
I take off my glasses and mop them down with my cool floral shirt. And I leave.
