Black Coffee

“And that was the last we ever heard of him.” With greedy anticipation Jeremy raised the cup to his mouth, already certain of the bittersweet taste on his tongue, the surety of the fluff of froth on his lips, and the expected but unexpected bite of cinnamon spice, when he caught sight of Sarah’s horrified look. “What?” His hand wavered and wobbled, the coffee only a moment from his lips, so near but yet so far… He sighed heavily as her increasingly aghast expression forced his decision. He reluctantly sat the virginal and unsullied cappuccino back down on the tabletop, swallowing back the anticipatory saliva gathering in his mouth to return her glare with equal force. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You can’t leave the story there.” Sarah leaned across the sticky, smeary surface of the table, all bright eyes and fervour, as if he held the clue to …

“What?” Jeremy realized he had already moved on in his head from his story. He scrambled to remember exactly where he had left it. Hanging from the edge of a cliff, if Sarah’s expression was anything to go on. The alluring scent of coffee curled up his nostrils and seductively whispered come hither, scrambling his thoughts and diverting his attention once more.

Sarah’s lips were moving but Jeremy did not hear what she was saying. His focus was on the red gummy bear sitting nonchantly on the saucer next to the coffee cup. Who was it that decided a gummy bear was a worthy accompaniment to a cup of coffee? Sacrilege! He threw an outraged frown at the counter where the ginger-haired barista, his hair fashionably long, his face fashionably smug, and his black eyebrows a fashionably startling contrast to his strawberry blonde curls, leaned on the counter attempting to chat up the bored waitress. The waitress ignored him, her dull eyes travelling across the half-full café without interest (half-empty? Jeremy wondered who decided this, too. Did a person remark that the café was half-full, in anticipation of further patrons arriving? Or half-empty, in the knowledge that the remaining customers would shortly leave?) and she raised a tattooed hand to hide her yawn. Jeremy’s gaze lingered on the tattoos. When had these young girls decided that tattooing their hands was a good idea? The watercolour tattoos were works of art, but these girls weren’t art gallery walls from which to display the whimsies of artists who created such permanency through the enforced intimacy of a needle prick. This was their own tender skin they had … defaced? Could he say that? He grinned to himself, imagining the indignation on the waitress’s face if he walked over and asked her why she had defaced her skin with her tattoos.

“Jeremy.”

Jeremy blinked. Sarah was sitting back in her chair again, leaving the wide expanse of the carelessly wiped tabletop between them, a yawning chasm, a barrier, a mute testament to the fact that they weren’t communicating. She had set her mouth into a thin line, somehow folded her lips in to make them bloodless and narrow. Her annoyed look, and she did it so well. She reached for her handbag now, bending down to pick it up from the crumb-scattered floor near her feet, her long, brown hair falling across her face and obscuring her aggravation. She set the bag on the table in front of her, effectively blocking him and building her wall of irritation higher. She narrowed her eyes into a fierce scowl. “Why do you always do this?” Her voice was a curious mix of displeasure, exasperation, affection, and hopelessness. The voice of a long-time partner reluctantly aware that opposites might attract but attraction did not guarantee a blissful relationship.

“Do what?” Her question genuinely surprised him. What had he done now? He cast his mind back over the past few minutes, attempting to find the point when he had unknowingly committed his crime and received his sentence. He knew that Sarah had been happy enough when he suggested a coffee after their Saturday afternoon movie, thrilled even, almost girlishly pleased. She swung from his arm as he pushed open the door to the café, chattering animatedly about the movie, and she spent a few minutes carefully deciding what she wanted from the blackboard menu. She chose a chai latte, if he remembered rightly, then she led the way to this table by the window. He allowed her to make the decisions, feeling warmly connected to her after ninety contented minutes spent in the darkened movie theatre. Even the movie had been her choice, a romance that he had not expected to like from the outset but it had been surprisingly gripping. A real story. A drama, they used to call it. Did they still call movies dramas these days? Other, more exciting names had fallen into common use of late: thrillers, suspense, cliffhangers, blockbusters, rom-coms, situation comedies, action, adventure – names that told the audience exactly what to expect. What did drama mean, anyway?

“Jeremy! The story?” Sarah’s eyes flashed and glittered dangerously. She zipped up her bag with an impatient tug, her angry gaze never leaving his face. He could see she had almost reached the point of no return and he still had no idea what had set her off down this treacherous path.

“Yes?” He added a smile in an attempt to sweeten her, much like the sachet of sugar he’d added to his cappuccino earlier. He curled his fingers around the handle of his coffee cup, preparing himself once again for the potent and power-laden first sip.

“Finish it.” Her voice was too precise, too measured. An alert that meant he was about to cross a line he had not known was there. He sat the unsupped cup down again, slopping a small amount of froth onto the table in the process. Warning, warning.

"Finish what? I haven't even started it yet."

“You were telling me a story about Mike, the guy from your office and you left it hanging, half finished. You said he went to Peru and that was the last anyone ever heard of him. What happened? Did he die? Did drug smugglers kidnap him? Why did no one ever hear of him again?” She spoke the last sentence through gritted teeth.

“What?” Jeremy stared at her, unsure how her mind could have possibly taken such a fathomless leap. What went on inside the woman’s head? “I don’t think so. Why ever would you think that? I meant that he never bothered to keep in touch with any of us. He left the office and got on with his life and that was it. No one ever heard from him again.” Jeremy shrugged, unconcerned. Office friendships often ended at the termination of contracts. The only reason he remembered Mike was that one of the actors in the film bore a very vague resemblance to the man. Mike himself was a bland, colourless person, and the fact he’d gone to Peru in the first place was a surprise to those who knew him. Evan, the man who’d taken his job, was a different story entirely. Evan was one of those sociable, friendly types, the kind of man to organize office raffles and race day sweepstakes. A gregarious workmate. Jeremy nodded to himself, pleased with this description.

“Good grief. Sometimes you are utterly infuriating.” Sarah snatched her handbag up from the table and cradled it in her lap. Like a security blanket, Jeremy mused. She tightened her hold on the bag and stared past him, out the window at the street, her lips now so thin they were practically non-existent and he still had no clue as to what it was she thought he’d done.

He looked doubtfully down at the ridiculous gummy bear on his saucer. Was it perhaps meant for someone else’s saucer? A child? Had he unknowingly denied a five-year-old her tiny piece of candy? He glanced uncomfortably around the café but there were no children seated at any of the other tables. Had they left already, the child heartbroken and pointing at the bad man at the table in the corner whilst her mother comforted her?

“Are you going to drink your coffee or not?” She didn’t look at him as she spoke and he decided it might be best to leave her alone until she got over her odd little mood.

Jeremy pushed his now cold cappuccino away, all desire for the silly blend gone. He wasn’t sure why he had ordered it in the first place. He was more of a no-frills kind of guy, the kind of man who called a spade a spade and kept things black and white. No grey areas. He waved to grab the bored, tattooed waitress’s attention. “A cup of black coffee, please.”

The End