Smitten beside a cafe latte
by Angela Allan

He loved cafe lattes, but she preferred cappuccinos -- less milk, and the marshmallow-thick froth coating the coffee, dusted with chocolate, tasted like ecstasy. It was only ecstasy when she was sipping the exotic blend with him at Caffeine Fix, the cafe outside the plaza. Girls in midriff-bearing tops and low-rider jeans sat on concrete barriers next to guys wearing jumpers three sizes too big and jeans trailing behind them. He smirked and asked her how long she though it would be before one of them was pregnant. She laughed and glanced over at a girl in the baby pink top with a g-string peering out of her jeans.
He warned her not to turn into one of "them", and then casually informed her, as he pulled out a cigarette, that smoking was detrimental to her health. He added that if he ever caught her smoking, he'd call her mum. The only problem with that was he didn't know her phone number. She giggled at the notion. He lit the cigarette with a trembling hand and drew in a long breath, blowing out the smoke, and then sighing. Shades of grey ash fell from the cigarette's tip. He sipped his latte, and she sat silently. He mentioned how tired he was, and she could see plum-coloured loops under his eyes, creasing with folds of skin when he smiled. He told her it was his birthday soon, and had no intention of organizing a huge party. She said nothing, but smiled sweetly, and sipped her cappuccino, legs crossed; right over left.
She peered at him through the vapor skimming the surface of her coffee. His eyes reminded her of two piercing blue-sapphire gemstones, and she knew that was a cliche. The strange thing was his hair was dark and formed in loops on the crown of his head; it wasn't blonde to match the stereotype, because he dyed his hair. He was too thin and pale to be a beach-bathed surfer anyway.
He was the guy who saw her as his little sister. They were so much alike, not just liking the same moralistic Disney movies, but you could see she reminded him of how he used to be. Now he felt forty years old in a twenty year old's body: with study, university, work. He was the guy who had an entourage of female admirers, and she was the simple seventeen-year-old, not even out of high school. She wasn't simple in the sense that she was unintelligent, but she did say things to amuse others, which were deemed "blonde" by her friends, earning her the nickname of "blondie". Simple, in that she craved a simplistic life; less complexities, less complicated people. Although, he was entirely complicated and moody, but seemed to hide it well beneath his lattes and weaving cigarette smoke.
She was the uncomplicated one compared to him, wearing her fake fur jacket, which summarized her personality: superficial and concealing her feelings of isolation. Her jacket was accompanied by black leather knee-high boots, that didn't match her vegetarian views, and dark denim jeans, which caused him to label her outfit, "a la retro, a la very St.Kilda." She laughed at this joke, but he remained blind to her adoration of him. He didn't have enough time for her, or to ask her for her phone number. This coffee was a one-time only sort of offer, she could tell from the trivial conversation that brushed past them.
She had noticed him at his work before, when she was buying a shirt for her then-current boyfriend. That had been months ago, and she felt a little smitten by him even then. She would love to be someone's everything, and even accept the implications of that -- just to experience what it felt like, even if it meant trading in her personality. But she knew she couldn't have it all. She couldn't understand why she kept contemplating the thought either. It just led to constant headaches and eventual tiredness, which resulted in her absent-mindedly watching TV at eight o'clock on a Saturday night, wrapped in a red blanket on the sofa, next to her black terrier.
The conversation over coffee led to university for her next year. What would she study? She had no idea. This question would also lead back to Saturdays alone on the sofa. He was passing his course and getting straight A's, even though he worked a normal 40-hour week in between study and university. He would run himself into the ground. Would she care? Yes. Would he notice if she did? Of course not. It's the way it always was with her. Conditional friends, when it suited the other person, which was fine, until you spend every Saturday with the blanket and the dog. She had other friends, but the attention of someone like him seemed to take priority. The face-value, meaningless conversation was a safety net for both of them; to avoid any sort of attachment and prevent any escalation of impending feelings, which was mainly on her part.
He finished his latte, the cigarette smoke tangled with the cool autumn air, and rushed to her face. Her eyes stung as she took the last sip of her cappuccino, and placed the plastic spoon into the cup. She walked him back to work and on the way, he poked fun of the girl working two stores away, who was always too cheerful. "She hasn't been working in retail long enough," he said with a laugh. They waved goodbye, as he disappeared between the racks displaying 10% off shirts and tracksuit pants.
All the thoughts she had over a cup of coffee still remained unaltered. He wasn't going to notice her; he liked cafe lattes and she favored cappuccinos, because of what was underneath the fluffy, chocolate-sprinkled topping. ecstasy was the covering and still, she could never discover what was beneath. The complexities were not what she need in her sometimes fake, but simplistic life of Saturdays on the sofa with a moralistic Disney movie.