One Cup Of Coffee
She had black hair, and white skin – white so it seemed you could almost see through it – and eyes that were a shade of green only eyes could be; many shades of green, and sparkling. Bright red lipstick. Patchwork trilby.
‟Hi, is anyone sitting here?”
I put down the newspaper I had been pretending to read and, folding it sharply – once, twice – used it to gesture to the empty chair at my table. ‟No. Not at all. Be my guest.”
‟Thank you.” She sat languidly. Is that the word? She didn’t move the chair back from the table. She just nestled into it, sliding herself down between the table edge and the back of the chair, and then she was sitting. Right there. At my table. She glanced over her shoulder and then turned back to me.
‟I wanted to sit here particularly.”
‟I’m flattered.”
She looked at me intently. Her eyes narrowed and some of that lovely green diminished. She looked as if she were about to say something, but stopped. Pursed her lips and looked down at the table.
‟Uh…” I placed my unread newspaper beside my plate. ‟Might I get you a cup of coffee? Tea?”
‟Thank you.” She thrust a hand out for me to take. ‟My name’s Annie.”
I shook her hand. ‟Pleased to meet you. I’m Conrad.”
‟Oh. That sounds very serious.”
I set my face. ‟Ah, but it is.” I smiled. ‟Every generation of my family has a Conrad.”
‟That must be dreadful for the girls.”
‟Never had a generation without a boy to be the Conrad.”
‟Hmm.” She looked around, gestured to a passing waiter. She ordered a coffee and then looked at me, raised her eyebrows and waved a finger at my plate and cup.
‟No, thank you. I’m done.” I sat back as the waiter cleared my side of the table.
‟So, Conrad. What on earth do you think we should about the situation in the Middle East?”
‟The Middle East?”
‟The Middle East. It’s a whole thing going on. How would you tackle it?”
I racked my brains. There was something about Syria on the news just that morning.
‟Not a clue, eh? Excellent.” She thanked the waiter as he brought her coffee over.
‟Excellent?”
‟Refreshing. You’d be aghast how many men rattle on about politics and other flimflam with only the slightest provocation.”
‟Well, it’s not really my area.”
‟What is your area, Conrad? Your area of expertise. Please God, don’t be a banker or an accountant.”
‟Can I be a financial manager?”
‟Is that a banker or an accountant?” She sipped her coffee, but watched me as she did so. I wondered if she was beautiful. I wasn’t entirely sure I could tell.
‟Well, it’s a little bit of both.”
‟Only a little bit?”
‟Well, half and half.”
‟So, can we say that you’re a banker and an accountant?”
I watched her sip more and more coffee. She was beautiful, I was fairly sure.
‟Do we have to?”
‟Too late now, Conrad, my boy. You could have lied.”
‟I suppose I could.”
‟But I’d have known.”
‟Right.” I smiled knowingly. ‟Because my lips would move!”
‟No.” She looked sad then, and finished her coffee. ‟Because your eyes would have.”
She got up, pushing her chair back as she did so. It scraped across the floor noisily. ‟I have to go. But thank you for the coffee.”
‟Already? I thought you’d sat here for a reason.”
‟I did.” She turned and looked out of the cafe window. ‟This is the only spare table from which I could keep an eye on my dog.”
‟Your dog?”
‟Yes. She’s tied up outside. They won’t let me bring her in here unless I go blind. Also, she farts.”
I stood. It seemed polite. Outside the cafe was a small poodle; tied to the bicycle racks opposite and looking in through the window at her owner.
‟She’s lovely.” It was the only thing I could think of to say. ‟What’s her name?”
‟Thank you. She is, isn’t she? Her name is Baskerville.”
‟Oh! Great name.”
She smiled at me. There was everything in that smile. ‟Careful, Conrad. Your eyes are moving.”
And she was gone. She walked out of the cafe – a man coming in delayed himself to hold the door open for her – and she untied her tiny white dog and then she walked away.
Her name was Annie. There was a perfect smudge of red lipstick left on her coffee cup. Her dog was called Baskerville. For a minute or two she left behind a scent of orange and patchouli, then that too was gone.
Rivka Jacobs
Wow, a great short story. Beautifully written. I think this was the week we all decided to visit the “real world” and human relationships and give the supernatural a rest! (At least, that’s what intentionally did.)
“Annie” made me uncomfortable — not a little bit manipulative there, using Conrad. She’s implying that something is wrong with him being in finance, implying that he might be dishonest, but she was completely dishonest herself. I wonder what she would have said if the person at the table was a little old lady? Probably would have told her the truth. Which leads one to think, she was also flirting and testing Conrad for possibilities….
Just one of those encounters of life that makes you wonder.
Great story, Andrew!
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Andrew Cheverton
Annie features in a few of my EW stories (if you’d like to see other sides to her, search also under “Annabelle Cooke” and “Cookie”), and is an ongoing project. I love her, but she’s kind of… variable. From her point of view, Conrad’s self-involved reaction to her sitting at his table initiated the rest of the conversation.
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