Pushing the coffee cup away, she rests her head on his shoulder. Her eyes close, shutting out the bustle of the busy café as she snuggles against him with a contented sigh. Her eyelids flutter as she’s jolted by his arm, sliding around her back, drawing her close. They open fully when he kisses her forehead. Smiling, she tilts her face, looks up at him and gazes into his eyes.
She stretches and touches his arm, a gentle caress reciprocated with one of equal tenderness. He trails a hand along her forearm and down to her thigh, where it rests, virtually hidden from view beneath the wooden topped table and its concealing litter of empty cups and condiments. He crosses his leg over a knee and the couple move closer.
Outside, the relentless rain beats down. It hammers on the roof and splatters the windows but they barely notice the storm: a glance toward the exit, a slight shift in position when the howling wind rattles the window panes. Nothing more. They sit for an age, quietly hugging. They could be anywhere — any place, any time — safe in their own bubble.
He moves… another kiss, on her cheek this time, then, lifting her chin, he seeks her lips. They kiss, lips locking and lingering. Cupping his face, she breaks the contact but remains tantalisingly close. She whispers something and her eyes shine at his mouthed reply. She kisses him again, lightly, quickly, then scrapes back her chair. Time to move.
Fumbling follows. In haste, coats are swept from chair backs, shaken and donned. He helps her stand and takes one of her bags, slinging it over his shoulder. They straighten their chairs, leaving them neat, and head for the door. When he hauls it open, the wind sweeps through the café. It stirs menus and stacks of serviettes flutter. The couple leave the café hand-in-hand, braving the storm together.
Jealous, I watch them go. I want what they have, that comfortable closeness and communication without the need for conversation. Unity.
The heavy glass door swings shut once more, lulling the maelstrom and muffling the hubbub from the street beyond. The steady patter of the rain on tarmac and paving diminishes; the swoosh of tyres racing through the puddles becomes a dull drone, the unwelcome breeze is banished. Serenity is restored until the coffee maker to my right hisses into life, spitting noisily. I turn to look as cups are rattled and cheerful pleasantries exchanged between the smartly-dressed baristas and customers ordering refills while they sit out the storm. No-one’s keen to move. I’m certainly not.
I pick up my mug and take a sip. My coffee’s gone cold. How long did I stare at that couple? I shake my head and, cradling the mug in both hands, I contemplate ordering another. Something different, perhaps… hot chocolate? I swirl the dregs of coffee in the bottom of my mug. You’d order coffee, you always do — a double espresso strong enough to melt the spoon, no sugar, no cream. Toxic stuff. Hmm… these thoughts of you make me smile — but it quickly vanishes.
I put down the mug and push it into the centre of the table. I don’t really want another drink — yet. I don’t want my Danish pastry, either, but I pick at it and pop a sticky curranty bit into my mouth. I can barely swallow it. I’m not hungry. Our last conversation left an ache in my stomach that prohibits me from eating, a gnawing pain that won’t go away. You’re right, you see, absolutely right. We do have to change things or end it.
The door bangs open and a girl yells “Sorry” as she shuts it again. She stands on the threshold, shaking water off her coat and trying to smooth her windswept hair. I know her. She works on my floor. I catch her eye and she acknowledges me while scanning the room. Then she spots someone deep in the heart of the café and, waving, trots on tippy toes in their direction.
Sitting back, I check my watch. Damn! I should be getting back to work. Lunchtime finished ages ago and I’ve got a sea of statistics to wade through before a meeting in — I peer at my watch again — Oh, no, less than an hour. I pout. Screw it. I don’t care, not today; I have too much on my mind. I can’t go back to work in this state. It wouldn’t be productive. I take off the watch, drop it into my handbag, then pick a hole in the Danish pastry while glaring at a dried drip near the rim of my coffee mug.
You. That’s all I can think about. Not work, not meetings, not deadlines. Just you. How did you do that to me? How did you capture me so completely? A blind date leading to a one night stand. That’s what you were supposed to be: dinner and a fuck, someone to satisfy my urges and needs. I didn’t sign up for full-on commitment and a long-distance relationship. That wasn’t the plan. And yet, two years on, here we are.
I adore you. You’re my world. You’re not with me but I talk to you all the time, hearing your voice more than anyone else’s. I confide in you, laugh with you, tell you all the little things that happen in my day. You’re the most important person in my life — my best friend, my lover — yet I haven’t laid eyes on you since your last visit six months ago. I haven’t kissed you, held you in my arms, made love to you…
Something tickles my cheek and I swipe it with my hand. A tear. Oh, no… no, not tears. They’re pointless. Logic’s what I need, not emotion. Change things or end it. That’s my choice and I could change our situation, remove the distance. We discussed it. It’s possible, but… Ugh! More tears — and I’ve destroyed the pastry. Crumbs dirty the table and my fingers are all sticky.
Embarrassed by the mess, I slide out of my seat and head for the nearest stack of white paper serviettes. I wipe my hands and eyes then take a handful back to my seat and clean the crumbs from the table.
Visit, stay, live. We’ve discussed it at length and, increasingly, I’ve thought of little else. I know I must make a decision. I can’t keep putting it off, I—
The door opens and another couple, drenched but smiling, move to the table opposite. A pretty blonde barista greets them with jokes about the weather and directs their attention to a coat stand near the door. She takes their order then clears the table while they busily hang up their saturated coats. The couple settle into seats opposite each other. They reach across the table, hold hands, and lean closer as they fall deep into conversation.
I watch, distracted, my thoughts and problems temporarily shelved. I remember when we did that: talked, held hands. We’ve done it often, but the first time… that was special. We talked for hours, our hands never parting, and I watched your face, your expressions, your smile. I melted every time our eyes met. And then one of us mentioned sex — me, I think— and we left that café in a flash, running through the streets to my flat where we fucked all night.
My heart still flutters when I think of it. You were so tender, so loving. Everything you did felt right. The way you kissed, the way you held me, the way you felt inside me and the steady rhythm of your firm, deep thrusts. You took your time with me — nothing frantic or rushed. And when I shuddered with bliss, you held me close and whispered that you loved me. Loved me? We’d only just met.
Another customer enters, escaping the rain.
It rained that first night, too — light drizzle that made patterns on the windows. We watched the raindrops chasing each other while we cuddled in bed. You stayed all night. You didn’t have to, I’d have understood. You had packing to do, goodbyes to say.
I sit back, rub my neck, and sigh. How fortunate that a mutual friend introduced us — how cruel that we met on your last day here. Still… staring out at the rain, my smile grows. We fucked like rabbits when you next visited. And we became more adventurous, doing all those things we’d promised we’d do if we ever met again. Funny, it was while I was sucking your cock that you asked me to move in with you. Brilliant timing. I chuckle at the memory and bite my lower lip.
My mouth’s dry. Hot chocolate, I need a hot chocolate. Beckoning a barista, I place my order and nod when she asks if I’ve finished with the pastry. The debris is removed and the table top wiped properly. Puffing out my cheeks, I lean on the clean surface, open my handbag and take out a book. It’s a fat, well-read, dog-eared guide to the Pacific North West. Your home. The home you profess you’d like to make ‘ours’. I’ve read it over and over, cover to cover. I flick the pages without opening any. My attention drifts…
Through the rain-streaked windows, I can see the hulking grey outline of my office block. If I count the rows of windows, I can find mine — the one I’ve looked out of for twenty-five years. I’ve spent more time at my desk beside that window than I have in my own flat. I study the building, the familiar outline: square with grand double-height entranceway dead centre, like a giant mouth. An odd looking but friendly mouth.
I love it there. My colleagues are great and my job’s challenging. I thrive on that. What’s more, the firm has avoided the cutbacks, redundancies, and management re-shuffles other companies have inflicted on their employees. We’ve escaped untouched and my co-workers, my friends, have been there as long as me. We’re a family and the office block is my home. Can I possibly leave that?
I tap my fingers on the table. Even this café is an old friend, though it’s changed over the years. Several owners, multiple make-overs, but the same clientele. It’s familiar. Safe. Everything here is safe.
My hot chocolate arrives. I put my thoughts on hold while I thank the barista and scoop up a spoonful of cream from the top of the steaming mug. Mmm… delicious, warm — the way you make me feel… Damn. I put the mug down. Appetite lost again.
You’re not here. That’s the crux of it, the problem. You’re rooted in your own soil, held fast by work and family commitments: children from your failed marriage, elderly parents, a job that makes a difference to people’s lives. I have the latter but nothing else. No family any more. No special someone to keep me here.
Oh no… tears. I sniff them back and the scent of chocolate fills my nostrils. Tempted again, I clutch the mug and take a sip. Lovely. I close my eyes, sipping the chocolate while trying to calmly formulate my thoughts. Taking a deep breath, I run through my options again. Visiting you for a short holiday is easy but wouldn’t solve anything. We’d still have to part, our future remaining uncertain. A six-month sabbatical may be possible — but, again, it’s a short term fix.
“It really is down to two choices,” I mutter into my mug. “Emigrate or call it off.”
I’m torn. Separation is destroying me, destroying us, but I love my life. Loved my life. Do I still? I love the life I’ve created but I’ve lived it for twenty-five years and I question the wisdom of repeating the same safe routine for another two decades. Will time pass in the blink of an eye with nothing new to slow it? I glance at the building across the road. Twenty-five years gone already — I can scarcely believe it. And then what? Retirement alone? That doesn’t appeal.
And I do miss you. God knows, I miss you. Daily communication is one thing but nothing can replace the thrill of a kiss, the warmth of a hug, the steady rhythm of sex. Loving you from afar is no longer enough. You’ve said as much and I agree.
The couple sitting opposite laugh. Still holding hands, they snicker at some private joke then kiss each other across the table. Her free hand flutters to his face, caressing his cheek and he smiles at the touch. They rejoice in the magic of huddling in a café while rain splatters the misted windows and the wind howls.
Watching, I quietly thank them. I’ve made my decision.
