A Less Than Average Day

The first frost appeared on the ground yesterday. The moment I stepped off the bus my left foot slipped on the sparkling yellow and brown leaves. I walked on, my breath making gray clouds in front of me as if I were smoking an invisible cigarette.

When I reached the cafe the noise seemed deafening. A child in a highchair was screaming, his face red and wrinkled, and a rabble of uniformed schoolgirls screeched and squawked at a large round table. The two young girls behind the counter looked busy. My face and hands were red raw with cold, but my body was beginning to sweat underneath my big winter coat.

I approached the counter, behind an old man. He was wearing a beige suit, which was old-fashioned yet smart, and his thin, silvery hair was flattened by a checked bonnet. When his turn arrived, he heaved his large carrier bag over to the till, and leaned on his walking stick. The young waitress wore a plastic smile.

"WhatcanIgetyouSir?" She barked.

The old man squinted up at the brightly lit menu behind her. "Eh... Er, just a coffee, my dear."

"Cappuccino? Latte?"

He looked confused. "Just a white coffee, dear."

The first girl sniggered. The other one rolled her eyes.

A memory came to me then. I had once waited on a couple when working at an American style restaurant. They were quite young, and looked like they may have been on a first date. When I went to take their order, the guy had asked for "chicken fajeetaas and a lime daqueeree." I had giggled, "so that will be one chicken fajita and a lime daiquiri?" He turned a glowing shade of red, and afterwards, I had laughed at his mortification with the rest of the staff.

As I stood in the queue, I was brought back to the present by the sound of the old man shuffling over to the condiments. I tried to suppress the memory that had washed over me by ordering my coffee, and forcing my mind to think of other things. I watched the old man look over the condiments table, and his eyes passed over the little sticks that are used for stirring drinks.

"Spoons... spoons..." I heard him mutter.

I passed by him, drink in hand, and found myself a table in the corner. I sat down and stared, first at the table, and then at the wall, thinking that I should have brought something to read. I drank my latte far too quickly, then wished I hadn't.

Eventually Yvonne arrived, swishing through the cafe with her long hair and long skirt sashaying in time with her steps.

"Hi, Karen." Her cheeks were flushed and almost matched her red hair. She was panting slightly. "Sorry I'm late."

Lowering herself onto a chair, she looked right at me. She hadn't bothered to get herself a coffee.

"Right." She pulled some files out of her bag and slapped them onto the table, but did not open them. "Do you know why I have asked you to meet with you outside of work today?"

"No," I lied, looking at the pattern on the tiled floor.

"Karen, look at me," she asked, her voice a little softer now. "This is not really working, is it? I mean, I told your mother that we would only employ you on a trial basis, and that was always going to be the case, and we..."

She carried on talking, and I carried on looking at the floor. My mother and Yvonne had been friends for years, and I couldn't believe she was letting me go. Self-pity began to flood through me, up behind my eyes then out onto the table. She noticed and stopped.

"Oh Karen, Honey, don't cry. You're just not right for this job, but there will be other opportunities."

My tears had begun to get thicker, and I could feel myself beginning to sob. The cafe was quieter now, and people were beginning to look over to our table with interest. I felt myself begin to redden, and suddenly, with a huge burst of impotent rage combined with humiliation, I got up and marched out.

I walked back to the bus stop, and on the way the clean, icy air calmed my hot head until I felt almost numb. I stood waiting, and watched a thin, brown river of sludge disappear down a drain in the road. The sky had darkened, and over to my right a flock of seagulls fought over a piece of discarded sandwich. A bus pulled up with a loud groan, but it was not the one I needed. I looked into the brightly-lit window and saw the old man from the cafe sitting near the front. I waited for a flicker of recognition from him but he merely stared straight ahead. The bus moved away with a huge sigh, and all I could think of was that I could have told the him what the wooden sticks were for.