Monday, February 12, 2007

You set the scene.

In the mornings, I usually go to the same cafe because the coffees are well made and reasonably priced. I know most of the staff there, the same way that I know most of the staff everywhere I go. That's why I go there. I hate waiting in line for a drink. I hate feeling like the person next to me. It makes me feel like walking out the door and hiding at home where there are books and a fridge, and so I can choose to serve myself whenever the fuck I want. But I go to this cafe because the coffees are well made and reasonably priced.

I walked in the other day and I recognised the waitress. She was cute, but I hadn't made a wink, hadn't even thought about her I didn't think, not more than is normal for me anyway.

Hi, she said, it's you!

I thought I gave her a smile. But I've watched myself in a mirror before and thought I was smiling, and sometimes it doesn't look that way. I don't know what it looked like this time. It was early, 8am, and I was hungover and I wanted a coffee. I told her. I want a coffee. Latte, strong, four sugars.

Sure hon, she scribbled something down on a scrap of paper but didn't seem to put it anywhere special. Just held it. Do you remember meeting me?

I'd met her a thousand times. Right here. Not making my coffee.

Man you were so funny, so fucking entertaining. You were crazy, what a fucking christmas! You're crazy!

Yeah, it was fun wasn't it. Hey, umm...I really need that coffee...

Oh sure. She turns and shimmies behind the bar, but her eyes don't leave me.

I don't really know what she's talking about, but that's no surprise. I didn't think that party was that crazy. Not until the morning anyway. Not until there were only five of us left and I knew everyone of us, and there was a ham and a chainsaw and bottles and christmas went from beautiful chaos to being screamed at over the phone to watching spongebob squarepants all night on my own.

Right then another of the waitresses walks past, I know her a bit better, have flirted with her lamely for a year or so, pretty standard stuff really, I'm not your type and you're not mine so let's at least call each other hotness and spunky and wink a little, play the game, we're both bored shitless...she says, Hey matty, and keeps walking past.

The first girl gasps. You're like, famous. You know everyone!

Yeah, I'm massive.

I look her up and down, and I just know, all I want is my coffee.


Sentimentality is like jerking off.
Afterwards, you always
feel a little dirty.
And a little bit weaker.
But I'm a sucker for it.
And sentimentality too.


I go back there for breakfast later that morning, and halfway through my eggs find myself needing to find some quiet time in the room out the back. I hate that. When I get there, I lock the door and get comfortable. Then I notice a ledge to my right, about waist height. And the first thing I think of is how I'd like to arrange to meet someone here, and eat breakfast seperately, and one by one walk into this room and fuck on this ledge. At that point I realise just how fucking sexy I look, pants around my ankles with a bunched up piece of toilet paper in my hand, about to wipe my arse, and thinking of how hot it would be to fuck someone, anyone in the toilet.

I go outside, have a coffee, and when I smile at the waitress, I try to show my teeth, and I try to say, we're all in this together, but I think in your toilet I just realised that I'm lower than most.

She winks. I like that.

Later that night, I dream of elephants in the water, and they look beautiful until someone warns me that they're probably going to roll over at some point and squash me. Then they turn into crocodiles, and so I scramble out of the water and up the banks until I'm in a kitchen and there's a woman and she's reading me a poem and each line ends in a phrase that make me sweat.


Conviction is a fucking great word. I could've done with that word when the acid bugs were taking hold and crawling slithering doubt spiders were jittering and scratching under my skin. It's a great fucking word, it almost holds a promise within it. A promise of belief in something. A promise that out there is something worth standing for. And being a fucker that looks down every road I pass, that's a pretty beautiful thing to dream of.


Good lines heard on television tonight part 1.

"What are you watching?"

"Bukkake Chef"

"Oh, I hate that show, the secret ingredient is always the same..."

No comments:

Post a Comment