I come to the Coffee Pot every day at 4 p.m. precisely. It takes me twenty-seven minutes to walk here from my room. I always have filter coffee. It’s one of those global chains. You never see the owner, there are different girls serving every time. This one’s out of Dickens, looks like she could do with a pot of coffee herself. Surly little thing; doesn’t notice me when I sit down, I might as well be invisible.
There’s a bit of a buzz in the afternoons. You can’t hear yourself think sometimes for all the clinking cups and whispering. There’s a couple of schoolkids, letting their coffee go cold, holding hands, dewy eyes, acting like they’re in love. It makes my stomach go over.
I sit at the same table, where I can see what’s going on. Across the road there’s a fellow selling the Big Issue. They’re not homeless, those people, you don’t have to be. Anyone can do it these days.
Three women, almost as old as me, come every Monday and Thursday. Shaking with laughter, showing what they’ve just bought. A spangly top, yellow shoes, lace nightie. Mutton dressed as lamb.
A dad and his young son. The kid’s in a strop, won’t sit still, whining he wants to go to McDonald’s. I’d give him a slap.
I burrow my face in the Echo. Another stabbing, three killed in a car crash, Council’s broke. At 4.20 on the dot, I shuffle out into the gathering gloom.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 