a short story.

I WROTE A STORY.

I’d never given much thought to the weather of March 12^th, 2011. It was lovely, so I should have been more attentive. When I say lovely, I don’t mean picnic-inspiring or the kind of weather that makes you wish the sky had a colour in the paint shop, because if you had to ever feel blue, that is the blue which you’d like to feel so you want to paint your kitchen it. It was dark and damp, the long grass surrounding the front veranda made my knees wet as I went to check the mail that morning. I dropped the water bill in a puddle and laughed at the irony.  Across the road, the old woman I’d named ‘Kettle Coleen’ was filling up her kettle using the garden hose. I’d never asked, but I’d assume she prefers the taste of warmed up hose rot than anything that came from, god forbid, the kitchen sink. A little further up, there was an old car under a gum tree, which had been there since I had moved in a few years back. It was a splendid mix of army green, rust and broken dreams. I like to imagine it was the getaway vehicle of two forbidden lovers, set to leave in the middle of the night for a church with lights, but were intercepted by an angry father with a shotgun. And now it sits there, under the tree, waiting for someone to turn it on with hopes of being wrapped with white ribbon, tin cans and new memories. I like to dream a lot. It frightens me less than reality.

I went back inside, placed my shoes by the fire and sat down, to immerse myself in the awkwardness of The Age. A few stories on government policies, changes to the youth allowance, a cat being saved by a koala, all general interest pieces that mattered little, but the point was that someone saw you read The Age, so suddenly you became this incredibly intelligent interesting person that didn’t mind that their newspaper was the size of an oven because you were an incredibly intelligent and interesting person. After I’d finished updating myself on events I’d soon forget, I decided that the lure of a sweet dark espresso was too much to bear, so I left the house again and began the stroll to my local cafe. An oversized coat and too-tight jeans were my staple outfit, a disguise if you will, so that if anyone were to look at me, they’d see someone who appeared to be rather large walking on stilts. It was a silhouette I was proud to confuse with and made me giggle whenever I passed large groups. My local cafe, a trendy inner city with light wooden floors and obscure band posters, was only a 7 minute walk from my mailbox but sometimes I took longer if I wanted to people watch or tie up my shoe laces. Today’s need for caffeine surpassed any eccentricities of the surrounding population and a mere 6 and a half minutes later, I heard the bell of the door as I entered.

“Morning Tom, double or triple?”
“Triple please, to sit outside.”
“Alrighty, I’ll bring it out it just a moment!”
“Thank you.”
I loathed that she said Alrighty with such chirp every morning. When I first saw her, I’d imagined she had this complete double life, and as soon as she left the cafe, she became this deliriously melancholic person that wore combat boots to kick kittens with and spent her spare time writing on walls in blood. I saw her at the 24 hour Coles once, at 3am, trying to find freaking cupcake mix. I thought maybe she was high, but with an almighty chirp she’d told me she’d been too busy helping her neighbours  move house to make any cupcakes for her mother’s birthday so she thought she’d pull an all-nighter. And I’m almost entirely sure she skipped out of the store. If she became a serial killer, I would not be surprised.

I pondered sitting at table 32 instead of 33, just to upset the natural balance of things. I don’t think I’m that important enough for it to make anyone lose their shit, but I like to think people find comfort in my regularity. I lit a cigarette and opened my tattered leather bound book, waiting for my coffee to arrive. I never really read my book, I prefer to look at the streets, so I made the extra effort to buy second-hand to keep up with the illusion of my intellect. A new girl had started at the cafe today, I didn’t recognise her as she brought me my espresso. She had brilliant red hair and a yellow cardigan on. There was a curiosity in her eyes as she came towards me.
“Triple espresso?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
She hesitated before she left.
“Do I know you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do I know you? You look so familiar.”
“No, sorry, I don’t believe you do.”
“Oh, sorry.”
I sipped on my coffee, pretending to be interested in my book. I’m not entirely sure what this book is even about, I saw the word cat before so I’m guessing it’s about loneliness. The city skyline was almost invisible today, the clouds from the winter finally taking their place by the 34^th floor. It hadn’t rained for a good hour though, which meant I should be able to sit outside, undisturbed for a little while longer before the drizzle would force me to leave, or worse, sit inside. The brilliant red head came out again, with a little smile this time that I hadn’t seen before. She stared for a while and I made a subtle head movement towards here.
“I’m sorry, but I swear I know you.”
“No, I think I’d remember you.”
“Did you go to high school around here?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
I turned the next page of my book, puzzled and slightly apprehensive. She couldn’t possibly know who I was.
“OH MY GOD! I’VE GOT IT.”
“Please…”
“You’re the kid off Australian Idol! The one that sang that Whitney Houston song and then started crying!”.
March 12^th, 2011. The day I switched to tea.