I am excited at the prospect of becoming a regular. I have never been a “regular” anywhere before, at least not a regular of anywhere where they would learn your name or give you a discount. I’m intrigued; what perks will this venture afford me? At the very least some small superiority to the other coffee-supping plebeians, I think.
Every morning for three days I sit in the same seat by the window, order the same drink. They’ll learn my order! Other customers will sit, mouths agape in awe as I am served without uttering a syllable! Who is this blonde enigma? they will cry, Who is this dazzling entity, what astral plane does she occupy? They will turn their faces away. They will not be able to comprehend my being.
On the fourth day a woman with expensive glasses and greying hair is sitting in the seat by the window. She drinks cappuccino. Indistinctive. I carry my chamomile to the armchair in the alcove, deflated. She’s broken my pattern, already. She’s shattered the dream. I notice that she wears her trousers too high. How dare she.
On the eighth day I am still sitting in the armchair in the alcove. I eye her occupying my window seat over the rim of my logo-ed mug. I have been perfecting my glower.
It is on this day that she begins writing about me. I know she is writing about me because I catch her looking at me, more than a few times. She makes no attempt to hide it, just studies me for a moment, relays some unknown message to her brain and continues to scribe. I can only mime reading my book. I can feel her eyes on me and it leaves me too disconcerted to absorb the words properly. Occasionally I turn the page to save face. For a while I think she might be sketching me, but I watch the movement of her hands and no, she’s definitely writing, in neat, even script, I can tell. She dots her i’s and crosses her t’s violently. I don’t like this. It makes me uncomfortable. I read about councils spying on tax evaders in the Metro last week. Does she think I’m a tax evader? Am I the subject of mistaken identity? Am I in a screwball comedy based around some hi-larious misunderstanding? What decade am I in? She isn’t writing me a love letter, I decide, the i’s and t’s leave no doubt about that.
On the fourteenth day the barista with the nice cheekbones smiles as I come in. I shrug off the recognition lest it distract me from the experiment.
I don’t knit regularly but I’ve worked steadily through a number of scarves and patchwork throws over the years. When I sit down in the armchair in the alcove I nonchalantly pull a half-finished hat from my bag and begin to knit one, purl one, watching her all the time. She’s watching me too- but not writing. This is piss-annoying. She’s drinking espresso today, I note, so she can’t be a regular, regulars have to be consistent, it’s the rules. So she’s not taking notes on my movements. I can strike that one off the list.
On the twenty second day I finally snap. It’s getting ridiculous now. I stand up from my armchair in the alcove and stride towards the woman, my heels making authoritative clacking noises on the hardwood floor. She sees me approaching, coolly lays her notepad on the table and cleans her glasses with the lurid chiffon scarf around her neck. My clacking did not phase her, it seems. Damn! I am disappointed, and a little phased myself.
“What are you writing?” That sounded good. I’m doing well.
“A list.” Her eyes pierce mine. I’m used to it by now but it’s more unnerving close up.
“About me, is it?” I point at my breastplate for emphasis.
“Yes.” Blunt.
“What does it say?” Blunter.
She lifts up the pad and begins to read. I notice that my arms are crossed and move my hands onto my hips. I read on the internet once that body language is more confrontational that way.
“I don’t like the way you haven’t made an effort to stop your mascara clumping. I don’t like that silly charm bracelet you always wear. It makes an annoying noise. I don’t like the way you always turn down cream when the younger barista offers it to you, and then say you’re watching your figure. Everybody knows you’re fishing for compliments, including him, and it’s a little embarrassing. I don’t like the way you constantly swap your rings from finger to finger. It looks like you forced yourself to adopt that mannerism to look quirky.” And she goes on and on and on.
F*****g b***h. F*****g b***h. My face reddens and to my horror my eyes are filling up with salt, what the f**k is she doing to me?
“So it’s just a list of things that are wrong with me, is it?” My voice cracks, that’s appalling.
“Yes.”
“You don’t know me, what the f**k? Who does that? You f*****g… it’s, you’re a freak, why, what the f**k?”
“I’m sure you can find plenty of faults with me.”
“Of course I can! Now that you mention it you have a stupid pensive face and you wear your trousers far too high” and you stole my window seat “and you wince when you drink your coffee” and the barista with the nice cheekbones talks to you more than me “and there are so many more things, but you know what the f*****g difference is, psychopath, I don’t spend my mornings writing them down.”
“Surely what I’m doing’s better than what you’re doing now.”
“What?”
“Your negative feelings towards me accumulated, then exploded. There’s just hatred left now. Am I correct?”
Was that rhetorical?
“Whereas my negative feelings towards you are on this paper. Not in the air. They’re out, and gone. I’m sure you’re a wonderful person for the most part, I really am. I‘ve already accepted your faults. And now there’s only room for some… profound type of love left. I love you. Do you see it now?”
“You’re f*****g mental.”
I shake my head, walk away, retrieve my bag from the armchair in the alcove and leave without looking back. I want to claw at my stomach and tear it with my bare hands, lay my gut on the window seat table and scream at her this, THIS is what you have done, THIS is how you have made me feel, this is your profound love this acknowledgement of my misgivings your twisted compassion and my naked insecurity (everythingyousaidwastrue) here, seeping bile onto your shoes, DO YOU SEE IT NOW?!
I find another coffee shop, buy a latte, sit at the least offensive table and don’t leave a tip. There’s a couple sitting opposite me. He’s beautiful. She has a graze in her chin, probably in the most unflattering spot possible. Her laugh is horsy. She has an ugly belt that she keeps tugging at. I don’t f*****g write these things down. I toy with my charm bracelet.
Bottle. Bottle. Bottle.
Would writing it down make me ‘love’ her? It wouldn’t.
I want to write it down. I could write for days, until she noticed me. Finally she’d ask what I was doing, and her brow would furrow, yeah, exactly like it’s doing now. And I’d tell her. She’d be shocked. And I’d feel clean, purged, squeaky oh-so-clean, real, liberated. I’d tell her I loved her, how much I loved her, maybe she’d leave. Maybe she’d understand, or at least be curious enough to stay. We’d talk, guard up at first, but we’d relax in no time. We’d have a strange, sudden connection. She’d introduce me to her boyfriend.
I could be the woman in the expensive glasses, hopping from café to café, pouring all my hatred into spiral bound notebooks, an odyssey of ballpoints and angry words and strange new friendships. I could be the women in the expensive glasses; the charm bracelet.
But that would make me a hypocrite. Could I do it? Overcome my crippling stubbornness? Shelve my pride and pursue the life of a complete human being, full of compassion and chamomile? Can I do it? Can I go out and do it, really do it, really do it DO I SEE IT NOW?
On the twenty seventh day the barista with the nice cheekbones remembers my order for the first time. I sit in the armchair in the alcove, drink my chamomile, read my book and go home.
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