Full Moon Coffee

I couldn’t sleep.  The full moon glared through the window at me: challenging me;  accusing me of… … … what?  I could have drawn the curtains, tried to shut it all out.  But just thinking about it woke me even more.  The soft pad of feet, cat’s eyes peering around the door; then she too left me alone.

Lonely.

A glance at the neon glow of the clock: 22:35.  

Sleep wasn’t going to come any time soon.  On impulse, I decided to go and grab a late night coffee.  Pulling on sweats, and heading out into the night, I walked the few hundred yards to Gringoccino (where had they got that name from?); past the newsagent, with yesterday’s news bundled and ready for removal; past the charity shop, with its sad items looking for a second home; tempted to stop and window shop at the bookshop - but driven past by the aroma of coffee from next door.  

Through the ill-fitting door, requiring its usual firm shove to open, and over to my regular table.  I knew… … … what was his name?  I really should know it by now!  I knew… … I’ll call him Mr Barista… … would bring my regular.  It was only then that I realised how close I had sat to the only other occupant in the cafe.  He was at the adjacent table; why hadn’t I seen him!  No moving now of course, here I would have to remain.  I glanced across at him.

The first thing that I noticed about him were his fingernails: black with compacted grime.  Gravedigger’s fingernails my Mother would have called them.   What a contrast to my own, recently manicured set!  I could hear her voice echoing down through the years: “If a man can’t even take care of himself, don’t you even look twice, Miranda Tania Tuella.”  She was the only one who had used my first name, and few knew what the second T stood for.  

He looked up.  Caught by panic, I blurted: “Nice evening for a coffee.”  He frowned, distracted, eyes not quite focussed, then he nodded, “Mmm.  Yes.  Nice.”

Feeling that British need for politeness, I added, “I’m Tania.”

Again a long pause, then, still distant: “Daniel.”  A ghost of a smile crossed his lips; thin, pinched like the rest of his face.  

My coffee arrived.  “Thank you… … …”  I didn’t think ‘Mr Barista’ would work, so I just repeated the thank you.  I don’t think he noticed.  

“What brings you here, Daniel?”

An emotion that looked akin to fear, and a widening of the eyes, before: “Just needed to get out of the house for a while.”

Something in the way he said it drew my eyes to his left ring finger: a pale ring of flesh where a wedding ring must have been until recently.  Not that he was tanned in any way, it was just the evenness of the slightly paler flesh; it would have been easily missed, but I’d grown used to spotting these things (something else that had been on Mother’s extensive checklist).  A few beads of sweat sprang from his top lip.  Now he seemed to feel a need to fill the gap in the conversation, such as it was, “Nice coffee here.”

“The very best!”  Came my far too enthusiastic reply.  We exchanged a few more words, both of us inane, forced, trapped in a conversation I didn’t want, and I don’t think he did either. 

An awkward silence followed; I toyed with my teaspoon caressing the rattail behind the spoon’s bowl.  My mind wandered, this must be an old spoon, who makes them like this anymore.  It fitted with the yellowing wallpaper, which was picked and peeling in places.  Shabby-chic might be the new thing, this place was just shabby.  Again I wondered what had drawn me in, in the first place, all those months ago.  Not my usual haunt at all!  Probably it’s proximity?  

I glanced at those not-quite-there eyes of his again.  We must be about the same age, I thought.  I was on the slippery slope to fifty; bits of me starting to sag; lines on my forehead now not only there if I raised my eyebrows.  That had driven me to the new hairstyle, and the blonde side-swept fringe in my freshly coloured hair.  Well, a girl has to look her best.  You never know when you are going to meet Mr Right!  I’d pretty much given up hope of that and would have settled for Mr Slightlymorepleasantthanaverage!  Or even just average!  I looked at my companion’s faded shirt, worn at cuffs and collar: this wasn’t going to be him!

Now, he seemed to be driven to speak: “Do you live near here?  I’m not far away. Just a couple of blocks.  An end of terrace.  With a nice gar… … aspect.”

“I’m just down the road too.  Couldn’t sleep.  I often come here when I can’t sleep.  Have you been here before?  I don’t think I’ve seen you?”  Now I was filling the silences with rambling incoherence.

“No, this is my first time.  I’m not allo… … I mean my w… … no.  No I haven’t.  It’s nice. I might come again now that I’m… … now that I know it is here.”

My nail traced along the woodgrain of the table.  I wondered about his missing ring.  He certainly wasn’t a player!  Divorced?  Widowed?  Wait!  Where were my thoughts taking me?  Not a few minutes back he was Mr Wellbelowaverage, and now that thought had morphed into something else.  My eyes returned to his shirt; but now I found myself thinking, he needs a woman’s touch.  

We talked some more; nothing of great import.  No flirting. Not yet, anyway.  

I had finished my coffee; he picked his up, he had hardly touched it since I’d been there, and he must have had it long before that.  Halfway to his lips he paused.  “It’ll be cold.  I’ll get a fresh one.  May I get you one, too?”

“Why not.  Skinny latte, please.”  

He glanced down at his own waistline and then raised his eyes to mine, “yes, I should try skinny too.  But you don’t need to for a minute.”  It was clumsy, his ears reddened, briefly.  He definitely wasn’t a player!   He went over to order, and when he returned, he sat at my table. 

The coffees came, a further silence fell.  On an impulse, an attempt to fill the void, I said, “that’s a nice watch.”  I reached across and tapped a nail on the glass.  My nails purple, with white catchlights; his pale pink with black highlights.  Whoa, Tania!  So they aren’t just plain grubby any more?

“And you have such beautiful nails!”  He reached out and took my fingertips, lightly.  I pulled them away before I’d realised what I was doing.  Reserve and panic in equal measure.  I saw his face, crushed, the ears even redder than before.  The next thing I knew, I was holding his hand.  I didn’t even remember reaching out.  I certainly didn’t think about it.  But here I was, holding his hand.  This man who I had just met.  Whose name, right now I couldn’t even remember!  Dylan?  Nathaniel?  His thumb was stroking the tips of my fingers; it felt closer to how I stroked my cat, than it did to a sensual touch.  But I didn’t care.  A man was holding my hand!  

I slid my chair forward a little, so that I wasn’t stretching quite so much. Our knees touched. But neither of us pulled away.  His eyes lowered to the wording on my sweat top: PINK.  Suddenly, I was conscious that beneath it I wore nothing else.  Maybe he wasn’t reading P. I. N. K.  Now it was my ears that heated, I hoped that their being buried beneath my hair, he wouldn’t know.  

“You are very beautiful,” he said.  “Lovely eyes, warm and brown. Caring.”   Our eyes met; his too were brown, not chestnut brown like mine, but with elements of hazel, perhaps even green.  I was drawn into the heart of him; there was pain, but I saw hope, too.  

Now our conversation flowed, animated, his confidence had grown; there were fewer pauses.  He paid me more compliments, several of them contrasting me as (in his words) some stunning beauty, to his (in his words) ugliness.  I wouldn’t have called him particularly ugly, plain would have been my word up until a few minutes ago. “I think you are very sweet.”  It was trite.  And now that I’d said it I felt the urge to make up for it.  As my mind raced for some words, my left hand, seemingly of its own volition slipped below the table and stroked his knee, “very, very, sweet!”  Was my touch sensuous to him, or was I equally just feline-petting, too?  

What had got into me?  How on earth was I in a cafe, stroking the knee of a man whom I’d only just met?  Then I remembered the end of my working day.  A colleague from marketing (no, I couldn’t remember his name, either) was leaving. We’d had a glass of wine… … no, two glasses of wine.  I hardly ever drank. That must be what was taking partial control of me.   Actually, it was three glasses, I thought.  Big glasses, too.  

His free hand dropped below the table; he ran a finger along the inside of my leg.  Now that did feel sensual!  I felt disappointment when it stopped its progress, only so far along, and reversed its journey; his hand on my knee now pressing my leg firmly against his.  That would do for now.  

And now my mind was racing ahead of itself, should we go back to his place?  Or mine?  Mine was nearer.  I’d never taken a man back to my flat before.  Was that forward?  Too forward?  Was the place tidy?  Had I pulled the quilt over before I had left?  What!  Tania!!  Whoa!  Now you are thinking of taking this man into your bed!  This man who you have only just met.  Into your bed.  My conscience was having a field day.  But then my inner devil was drowning him out: how good does that hand on your knee feel; imagine it sliding higher; imagine it sliding under your sweat top; imagine it… … … he was speaking and I’d been far away; I’d missed the beginning of what he was saying: “… … were meant to meet tonight; means that it is all ok; means that I have done the right thing.  I just know that now my life will be changing for the better.”  His grip on my hand and my knee were now stronger.  I didn’t mind.  I liked it.  Strong hands.  A man with strong hands.  Suddenly it didn’t matter if the bed was made or not, we would be messing it up anyway; locked together; those hands on my… … … .  He had lowered his voice to a whisper, his lips were close to my ear; I imagined them gently nibbling at the lobes, my neck, my… ... his hoarse whisper intruded:  “I just know that  I can trust  you.  Trust you with anything.”

“I’ve just buried my wife under the patio,” he said.