As I was debating what to do about Roger, whether to concede defeat immediately or arrange to see him again, the thing that everybody had been telling me would happen did happen: the offline, real-world romcom storyline. I got talking to a stranger in a coffee shop, and left feeling deeply, nonsensically infatuated.
It’s my neighbourhood cafe, and I go there often. I like the people; I like the coffee. On Saturday afternoon, I took a work file, to try to unknot a knot: to look at it out of the usual environment. As I was going in, a tall, middle-aged man held the door open for me. He had silvery grey hair cut short – I’d discover that he’s ex-military – and blue eyes, and was wearing a suit jacket, white shirt and jeans. The hand on the door handle was large and strong.
When we got into the queue, I turned and said, “You must order first, as you were here first. Door-opening shouldn’t impede your rights to the last croissant.” He was trying not to order the curd cheesecake, he said, though every fibre of his being longed for some. Me too, I said. I won’t if you won’t.
He was trying to get fit, he said, and was attempting low-carbing. He told me a bit about his regime. The claim was busted when the barista interrupted him by saying, “Your usual?”, gesturing towards the cheesecake.
“Ah, you have form,” I said. “Your name and your carbohydrate ways are known here.”
“I’m afraid that I do, and they are.” His smile was outstandingly attractive.
We stood at the waiting area, chatting beside the sugar and cinnamon. It was busy and coffee delivery took a while. When both cups were produced, instead of going to a table, we remained there, getting in other people’s way but staying put. We talked about cake, exercise, the use and abuse of weekends, going to the cinema alone (aha!), swimming, autumn, dogs, books, work: he’d just gone freelance and found himself working at the cafe a lot. “I’m Andrew, by the way,” he said. “Very glad to meet you.” We introduced ourselves properly. We’d finished our coffees by now, and he bought us both a second one.
I had the weirdest impulse to kiss him. I can’t account for it, but I felt an immediate, strong sense of … I was going to use the word ownership, but that won’t do. An immediate strong sense of belonging. What I wanted most was to keep talking. I wanted to say, “Shall we go for a walk, shall we eat together?” But I didn’t, because that might have been interpreted as deranged.
“Right,” he said, eventually. “Down to work.”
“Yes, down to work I suppose,” I agreed. I walked away, holding my coffee with both hands, and went to the far end of the room. Andrew occupied a table nearby, and I looked at him occasionally over my cup, aware that he was doing the same. I couldn’t concentrate on work, and texted Chief Sensible Friend. “I’ve just experienced it, the thunderbolt. I’m not kidding. Pow! Andrew, 6ft 4in, silver fox, charming, bright, possibly interested. Help me.”
“Oh, Christ,” she replied. “Not again.”
“No no!” I responded. “Actual thunderbolt. Plus, seems v nice. Interesting, cute, funny.”
“Leave the cafe at once,” she responded. “Go home, never go back; avoid, avoid.”
I hadn’t heard from Roger since the dating-others email. That evening, I replied. “I don’t think we should see each other again,” I wrote.
I went again the next day and waited for 45 minutes, reading a paper and watching the door. He didn’t show. On Monday, he came in, waved and sat looking intently at his laptop. A male pal arrived and they talked animatedly about politics, before leaving together.
On Tuesday, I wore a skirt and boots, a T-shirt and jacket, silver jewellery and lipstick, and waited for more than an hour, and he didn’t come. On Wednesday, I zipped round at 8am for a takeout, still in my baggy black pyjamas (which just about look like leisurewear), with a big long sweater over them, a hat over my ears, a disguising ankle-length coat, not having even cleaned my teeth, and guess who turned up? I pretended I hadn’t seen him, until I had to pass by in order to exit, and then I wished him a cheery good morning, and strode home.
Stella Grey is a pseudonym
