Don't Give Me Caffeine

Short about a man's struggle to act normal to hide his condition

The insipid tiled walls reflected dim lights.  White formaica dominated with the odd black stripe just to keep things interesting, chic.  Newspapers floated on the wall.  The girl behind the counter wore an expression well beyond her years.  He watched as she mechanically performed her alchemist tasks.  She was efficient but unenthusiastic, half asleep, he thought.  In soul as well as slouched body.  BANG. BANG. BANG.  She hit the filter on the coffee bin edge to empty it and filled it with another cups-worth.  KSHHHHHHUP.  She frothed the milk as the brown liquid filled a take-away cup. The aroma hung in the air like a stale fart, creating a claustrophobic kind of homliness.  

“Latte to take out?” her flat voice invited the next blank face to collect their hit.  

He again felt the rush of cold heat, like a million needle pricks starting from his centre to his toe and fingertips and back again, his heart giving an alarming shudder.   BANG. BANG. BANG.  The barista emptied more coffee into the bin. Something angry was trying to fight its way out of his stomach.  He thought maybe it was an eel but couldn’t recall swallowing one recently.  A dull thrumming replaced the needles. KSHHHHHHUP.  His core vibrated.  F**k. F**k. F**k. F**k. His jaw tightened against the chattering.  He focussed on breathing steadily and keeping himself still, the effort making his jeans shake and his elbows clamp to his sides. F**k. Sweat dribbled, a feeling like flies crawling down his body.  BANG. BANG. BANG.  As the tension released him slightly, he diverted his attention to the other bodies occupying the various leatherette and chrome seats.  He knew it wouldn’t be long before the next cycle started but tried to relax as much as possible in the lull.  

“Large cap and Americano.”  A grey suit collected the cups, his black shoes clicking on the worn, cream floor-tiles.  They sounded and looked expensive.  He followed the clicks to see the man set the Americano in front of a blonde with a French plait in a navy work dress.  BANG. BANG. BANG.  He wondered what kind of meeting it was.  Work talk, Blind Date, Friendly Chat, Wife, Mistress, Sister?  KSHHHHHHUP.  Divorce?  Hard to tell, masks were firmly on.  They looked too smiley for wife, sister or divorce.  Far too smiley for divorce.

“Macchiato to take out.”  The studenty girl: all thick-rimmed glasses, boho clothes and big sloppy bag stuffed the last bite of her croissant in her mouth as she walked up to the counter.  He caught a whiff of her scent as she passed him.  It was flowery, spicy and faintly smoky.  He imagined her dark, messy room awaiting her return to warm it with her presence and the smell of coffee.  BANG. BANG. BANG.  Here came the needles again.  He braced himself, breathed out a long, controlled breath which had the faintest hint of ‘shiiiiiiiiiit’ in its whisper.  KSHHHHHHUP.  His heart attacked his ribs, like an angry ape banging on the bars of its cage.  He wondered that no-one heard it. No-one pointed at him and shouted “Freak!” “F*****g weirdo!” or kicked his shins and ran off.

“Decaff Americano.” She sounded even less impressed with his choice.  He got up slowly, shakily, trying to work with the tremors rather than against, producing what he thought might pass for normal movement, although it felt anything but, to him.  It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s FINE.  He attempted a smile at the barista, trying to keep his eyes in their sockets.  She was putting on a polite, ‘Have A Nice Day’ smile.  Neither were very successful around the eyes which met briefly and then looked away, embarrassed at being caught out.  He took the mug handle with vibrating fingers.  He noted, with relief, that the vibrations felt stronger than they looked.  He smiled again in the girl’s direction sheepishly, without looking at her directly and made his careful way to a table in the corner, sitting with his back protected on two sides by the walls.  His knees gave way as he lowered into the seat.  He quickly scanned around him to make sure no-one had noticed but everyone was busy with their own stuff.  Enticements from Blonde Plait and Clicky Shoes’ conversation drifted in his direction.  BANG. BANG. BANG.  

“...told her she had to leave…” Grey Suit was spitting “...brought it on herself…” and “...better off out of it…” also reached his ears. He strained to hear what Blonde Plait was saying but could only make out sounds and tone.  She seemed to be trying to be calm but there was an edge.  KSHHHHHHUP.  She’s either heard this before or has been waiting for it.  He strained his ears, desperate for anything to distract him from the urge to slam his fists on the table, topple it and scream obscenities at the clientelle.  He took a shaky, comforting sip of his coffee.  BANG. BANG. BANG.  A middle-aged lady sauntered past with her take away cup.  Hairdo, posh shopping bags and a face that looked like it spent much of the year abroad, somewhere exclusive. Possibly with an on-site age-defying treatment clinic. The rabbit on her jumper eyed him snootily.  He automatically checked for a wedding ring, not knowing why.  She wasn’t his type at all.  Too posh.  Too old.  Too married.  KSHHHHHHUP.  A loud rumbling bass intertwined with fast paced treble notes interrupted his musings.  

“‘Ello?” A gruff voice to the left of him stopped the ringtone.  BANG. BANG. BANG.  A well-bottom male voice made some kind of enquiry.  The answer was a loud, laddish “Ha! Ha! Ha!  Yeah, mate!  She was there…”  Teeny tiny voice interrupted with another enquiry.  KSHHHHHHUP.  

“Ha! Ha! Yeah…”

More from the other side.

“Oh…” The tone turning not-quite-as-jovial.  

Yet more from the other side.

“Did he?” The tone was definitely getting-annoyed now.

More tin.

“That F****R!” Phone-man was trying to maintain a jovial, friendly tone but it was obvious that whoever the ‘F****R’ was, they might be a couple of bollocks short very soon.  “Ha! HAAAA!” Definitely trying too hard to be jovial now.  “Yeah, I’ll tell him what-for when I see the b*****d.  Haaaa! Ha!”  

The small tinny voice concluded the conversation.

“Yeah mate...right.”  The phone clattered onto the table.  “F*****g c**t” was followed by loud exhalations and china-chipping mug-to-table contact.  BANG. BANG. BANG.  

 

A plump-bottomed lad swung past carrying a small bag of pastries, a slightly guilty look on his podgy features.  His suit jacket was just a little bit too tight on the hips, the tails slightly ajar on his rounded bottom.  Weight gain or purposeful?  He tried to consider but was forcibly pulled back into himself as heat and cold collided inside him again and he tensed, tried to do the breathing they had taught him at the clinic.  He wished he’d worn his hoody.  KSHHHHHHUP.  The shakes fought against his tense muscles which let a slight twitch through now and then.  He finished his coffee and made for the outside. 

 

Reviews

[M. Black]

This is really good. you got the frustration of the character wanting the caffeine through really well, I could almost feel how tense they were. making it like a serious drug addiction was a very interesting and unique take. makes me want a cup of coffee.

[alwayspencil]

Thanks for the review! Hope you got your coffee :-)