The cafe on the corner.
I’m sat on a stool facing the window. There is a high ledge to lean on and glass that looks out onto a row of parked cards and pedestrians. Across the street I can see the white lettering of the Everyman cinema.
“We’re back baby”, it says.
To my left are shelves full of bread. Olive, brown and white sourdough - bubbled and crisp like sunburnt skin. There is a pigeon nodding along in search of crumbs. Flakes of pastries scatter the floor, falling like dandruff on jeans, on shoes. They are still serving in takeaway cups. Earl grey. To sit in. I have to suck up the tea stains on cardboard. So muggy… no mugs. The lid is turned upside down, patterned with spots of moisture like bathroom mould. The inverted lettering reads in hieroglyphs. There is a woman in a yellow dress walking by. Then another - squinting past glasses with hair like burnt embers, frizzing at the tip, running Saturday errands she can’t be arsed for. I see a man with ruddy skin, kind of purplish in colour - I’m unsure if he’s filthy or if his skin is soaking up years of booze. A woman gets into a car with two crutches and an M&S bag. Green. The registration plate ends in MBW. A bicycle whirrs past - tick tick tick - the ember-haired woman walks past Quik-Fit, pucker-faced. A uni girl carries a furry, lilac bag. It is horrid. Groovy-Chick circa 2000, (why the heck is that back?) Is this some kind of Gen-Z irony? Ick. A boy lollops past, swallowed by his own hair. Brian May. Teenage spots. Slug slug goes the hair. We have liftoff… I need to wee - my bladder is filled with overbrewed tea. Damn. Don’t want to risk losing the seat by the bread, the window - the prime spying spot. Jacket on chair? Book on table? I’ve held it too long… panic jacket seat leaving go, now.
”Cleaning in progress” - shit- the little yellow sign of bladder hell is plonked on the stairs. How long to wait? The barista shouts “TWO FLAT WHITES” once, twice, christ - the crunch of coffee beans and steamy, hissing, milk jugs bang and a nose-blowing trumpet chimes in - her patience is wearing thin: FLAT WHITES!? She’s angry now. Hiss, coffee, piss bladder, back to the jacket-chair, legs scrape, crummy floors and shelved bread smells. Sourdough shelf - empty - hands have grabbed and pillaged for weekend brunches of avo toast - why does no-one go for olive bread?
The yellow sign was a ruse. Loos were open all along. The wait for the cubicle. The flush, the awkward shuffle in close proximity - her to the sink, me to the loo. Oop, sorry. Silent eyes, lock, poppers, sit, pee, ahhh, paper, poppers, turn and flush, unlock, sink, soap, hands, hand drier moaning out.
Back at the window - girl with blue hair, walks on the tips of her toes, fake sunflower in her hair. Looks like a tw@.
Woman all in pink - top, capri trousers, sandals, hair - like she’s been dipped upside down in a paint pot.
Man, sullen, moody-too-cool-leather-jacket-Hugh-Grant-hair, furrowed brow and ciggie flicks, one hand in his pocket, car swerves into the road, he has to do the awkward speed-run to make it across. Fantastic.
Pigeon, back, plodding for crumbs. The best of them.
