September 2005
It is 1745 and I arrive at the scene of the crime. I look around for a seat but it is Sunday and the place is packed with people – weekend shoppers, dating couples, and small families on outings. I look around again and see a man rise from his seat and leave. Perfect timing, I think to myself, as this is a table at the far end, near the doorway, where I get a full view of things.
I see him at the counter, standing with four others. Tall, lean and lanky, with hair so brown you would think it’s black. He wears the green company apron over a long-sleeved black shirt. He holds up a cup to look for a name, and calls it out with a voice so smooth and deep. Someone walks up to him to ask where the toilets are. He directs her in the same old words, no more no less, and with that same smile. He walks over to the cashier to take an order. He scribbles a name on a cup and passes it on to someone else. Sometimes, most of the time, he makes the coffee.
I hear the hiss of the coffee-maker, and the loud banging sound of that little coffee-making tool (I do not know what it’s called). Today I decide to have a tall cappuccino. I see that he is not around, so I go up to make my order. A few moments later he reappears from the store and takes over making my coffee. Everyone who was standing beside him gradually leaves the counter. I go numb and whisper “shit” under my breath. I tell myself that this is a rare chance that he is actually standing there alone. I think about what I am supposed to do – say “Thank you” when he calls my name, and go, “Nice hair” or something else really cheesy. Then proceed to the next step and ask “What’s your name?”
No.
I see the silver ring on the fourth finger of his right hand and pondered its significance, if any at all. He flips his hair occasionally to get the fringe out of the way. I see him put a cover over a cup and wonder if it is mine. My heart starts to race and I feel myself go cold with nervousness and anxiety. He finally calls my name and I am this close to opening my mouth, but I walk up to the counter, awkwardly grab the cup of coffee as if I had stolen it, and with a turn of my back I walk away.
I sit down at my table once more, face flushing. I get a horrible feeling that he knows me – in a negative way. The girl who comes in all the time and reads like there is no tomorrow. Or maybe she does not have a life outside my workplace. Because when I walk up to get my coffee, he does not smile at me or direct me to the condiments corner like he does to others. He smiles at everyone but me. I continue to watch him from afar. He walks over to the condiments corner, and an upbeat song starts to play over the speakers. He does a little dance to the music while refilling the chocolate powder.
At approximately 1905 I leave the scene of the crime, feeling slightly paranoid that he recognises and hates me. Already.
