The night you didn’t show

I sat in the coffee shop for twenty minutes before it occurred to me to send you a message. You were probably just having trouble finding a park, or you lost a button getting dressed and had to sew it back on. Or you misplaced your keys. And it was dark outside, so maybe you missed the street sign. So I messaged you.

My coffee had arrived, and I stirred in sugar cubes until it went round like a whirlpool, and the cubes dissolved. And then added another and another just for good measure. Across from the counter sat a pair. They weren’t a couple, but they never shut up, except when one finished the other’s sentence. I was fairly sure they’d have kids. One day, anyway.

The barista had his teatowel tucked into his leather belt, and was laughing at his wife, who was wiping down tables, rearranging all the magazines. For all I knew they’d been married twenty years or twenty days.

My phone vibrated on the coffee table after twenty minutes, causing people to continue ignoring me.

“Sorry hun. I just got tickets to see Lilly Allen.”

I slapped the teaspoon down on the table, sending coffee sprays on my white shirt. I was fairly sure you were really sorry you weren’t sitting with me. I know you wanted to be here, drinking sub-standard coffee and comparing notes on life.

‘There’s one ‘L’ in Lily Allen.’

Was that passive aggressive enough?

I sat for a few minutes, before I sculled my now cold coffee. Then I sat for a few more minutes. Alone.

When I got to the counter, the barista waved his hands at me. ‘For your sad face, that is free’. I wasn’t sad. I had poked myself in the eye, didn’t he know? I put my money in the tips tin. Outside, I got in my car, and drove home quietly.

Inside the house was silent and dark and cool. Just like I left it: pristinely tidy, with fresh sheets and the teddy bear hidden away. I turned on the stereo, and there she was. Singing the only two words I could think when I thought about you.