Love & Coffee

Dedication.

Every book, published either in electronic or printed form, is a journey. The chances are the author will have benefitted from the help and advice of any number of people, either directly or indirectly, somewhere along the line.

Love & Coffee would not have seen the light of day were it not for the support and encouragement of the writer Denise M. Main, the sculptor Shaun Main, the personal trainer and nutritionist Chris Main, and a hundred and one other very talented people who liked what they read before they even saw this published e-book.

A large slice of thanks must also go to the highly creative designer Darren Scott, founder of Truth Design in Manchester. His contribution to the book’s front cover was more than just the icing on the cake.

A note about spelling: Although I may eventually have readers all over the world, I live in the UK, write in the UK and, therefore, spell in the UK. Any differences in the spelling of certain words in Love & Coffee may be due to language and cultural differences. They are not necessarily incorrect spellings of the words themselves, and are definitely not meant to cause offence. Have a nice day.

Table of Contents

Copyrights

Dedication.

Table of Contents

The fly on the wall

Goodbye Hello

I guess that means I’m a regular

The Rucksack Guy and The Curly Haired Blonde

When The Man comes around

Thank you George

The Frightened Man walks in

The Boys in Blue frog march The Shifty Dude

The Moaning Man gets a break

You must remember this

The Hermit steps back in time

Tickling the ivories

George rolls his arse

Pin Stripe has big plans

Lola wags her tail

Mister Tick Tock slows down

The Mouse has a girl talk

The Girl With The Butterfly Tattoo

The note in black ink

Heels on Wheels doesn’t give a damn

The Girl With A Thousand Freckles nods

The ones who want to fit in

The Limping Man’s rule

The Thin Lady is emotionally blind

The King and Queen of Hearts

The Listener searches for a sound

Time is on my side

The Matchmaker conjures a sign

The non-electronic love note

The Timekeeper sits on the balcony

Dangerous eyes and a heart as big as Kansas

The Birthday of The Lost and Forgotten

The marvellous thing about coffee

It’s a kind of magic

The Mouse is looking concerned

The Woman Who Never Forgets

Bruce Banner unclenches his fists

The Girl In The Long Black Dress

The Girl With Purple Hair gets dumped

The rebellion of The Predictable Man

Romeo and Juliet are in the coffee shop

Ground Control loses touch with Major Tom

Dancing The Hairy Mambo with the butterflies

This is Coffee Shop Chess

Five feet two of miniature rock and roll

Julio says he is a fashionista

The box knows where The Philosopher goes

The Guy With Thunder In His Face cools down

Lola’s back in town

Just a perfect day

Wonderful world beautiful people

Then I saw her face

I walk past The Dark Man

Today we rise, today we shine

The Girl With A Million Freckles blushes

The Professor is saving the atmosphere

Business Suit has a blind date

Needles and pins

The Man With Sadness In His Eyes

The Lord of Second Chances wakes up

The Bag Lady is alone in the crowd

The tears of The Girl In The Red Beret

The Magnet is off his meds

All the corporate zombies

Coffee with Elvira Mistress of the Dark

The Man in the Black Flat Cap

The Girl Who Doesn’t Step On Pavement Cracks

The Walking Stick Lady has a birthday

You’re so vain

Give peace a damned chance

The Cutter taps his box

Getting to know you

The Man With The Five Minute Memory

The First Lady of Second Chances

The Joker’s tears

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas

The boys are back in town

The carrot-topped mad boys

The Swans walk in the door

Loneliness is like battery acid

Take a look at me now

The Cowboy and Calamity Jane

Star-crossed lovers of a different kind

Singing in the rain

The deteriorating mind of Maude

Tiny, the tallest Christmas elf

He has a badge that says Angel

Damaged Goods has a secret admirer

The Counting Girl is free

Little Italy has an on-going affair

The bipolar quick-change artist

The Hi-Fi Blonde adjusts her headset

The Boy With The Mythical Arms

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

The Girl With The Elvis Hairstyle

Happiness is a large Americano

The Girl with Express Thumbs

The Girl with Beautiful Blue Eyes

Romeo gets down on one knee

The Hawaiian jumping flea

Louie The Pug and his human companion

The Nervous Man takes a deep breath

Love the one you’re with

The Man In The Brown Derby Hat

Spanish Johnny’s moustache

The Girl With The Shaven Head sees the truth

Déjà vu all over again

The Good Brother

Big Tony and The One

Shelter from the storm

Little Italy speaks Lolaese

Two perfect green roses

The Indecisive Twentysomething

Cappuccino with a dark brown smile

The Platinum Blonde and The Beard

We all hear voices

Today is Bump Day

The Man With The Lopsided Grin

Four-legged Man coming through

Heroes are funny buggers

The Freebie Guy and The Waif

The Nasty Boys get their comeuppance

Father, Son and Holy Ghost

The Scribbler is waiting for his Muse

Bent out of shape, bent out of time

The Girl Who Doesn’t Exist

Macho Man makes The Mask smile

The Poet needs a Plan B

When a man loves a woman…in 3 acts

Green is the new red

Have I told you lately that I love you

The Man In Black writes something in the air

The Dreamer and The Mouse

The Gimp and The Girl With The Scar On Her Cheek

The Priest and The Hooker

The Two Cowering Twentysomethings

The Tweedle Boys blow hot and cold

Moses Fleetwood Walker gets a card

The Flash dashes into the coffee shop

Fast Annie throws in her order

Got a pay-it-forward coffee?

The Boy With The Moon And Stars On His Head

The Girl In The Dark Shades

Baby please don’t go

Old Hollywood glam

The Girl With Betty Davis Eyes feels an itch

The Man In Black has a birthday

George has a secret

The Man Who Smiles At Everyone

The Talking Man and his listening chair

The Penitent Man and Layla

In memory of The Beekeper and Lazarus

The love of The Mirror Image Blondes

Closed for refurbishment

Coming soon

About the author

The fly on the wall

Love & Coffee didn’t start off as a book. It began life as a guy scribbling a few lines here and there to pass the time in his favourite coffee shop. Waiting for a damned Americano to get cool enough to drink. Not gulp. Just sip now and again, nice and slow, while his brain said hello to the morning.

A funny thing happens while you wait for something like that. You get to looking around. Not obviously so other folk see you doing it. Not blatantly so they wonder why the hell you’re looking at them. But slyly.

You come to an agreement with the guys in control of your central and peripheral vision that as long as they don’t tell you all the details of what they do and see…you can’t be held accountable. Plausible deniability. And when that happens something else happens. All the guilt you felt before because you were looking at folk getting ready to meet the day disappears.

And when that happens, folk tend to open up to you. Not intentionally. Not deliberately. But somewhere in between the lines. Somewhere in between the actions. Then the change takes place.

You become the fly on the wall. The piece of furniture. The witness to all the good and bad that happens in their lives. And you learn things pretty fast.

Things like everybody wants to be happy. And everybody wants to be loved. Some folk want to remember. And others just want to forget. And somehow, here, everybody gets the chance to get back in touch with whatever makes them want to wake up in the morning and get out of bed.

They get the chance to go some place where the heart beats a little steadier. The smile stretches a little wider. The tears fall a little less. And the breathing shifts down a gear or two.

For a while, they hand over control to someone who always seems to know more about them than anyone should. Someone who helps them partake of the finest damned drink on the planet.

Someone called Little Italy.

Welcome to Love & Coffee.

Be cool…

Goodbye Hello

Sometimes a new day needs a new door to walk through. A change of pace…a change of place…a change of face. Just like this morning. Goodbye generic cafe haunt. Hello feelgood coffee shop. Right in the city centre.

Maybe I find it by chance. Maybe it finds me. Who the Hell knows. I hit the city centre too late for dawn. Too early for work. The sun tries to force itself out from behind the northern clouds. It’s almost a fair fight. I catch a waft of strong coffee coming from round the corner.

I see the tables and umbrellas first. I see the relaxed patrons second. I see the open doorway third. A sign on the door says: The best damned drink on the planet. I see folk relaxing in the semi-shade. The rich aroma of Italian coffee blended with continental ambiance in the foreground. Classical sounds and low conversation in the background. A taste to die for, accompanied by music to come alive to.

I pass over the threshold and walk up to the bar. It’s a fifty-fifty morning. Half the tables are empty. Waiting for the regulars. Waiting for the newbies.

I feel like a kid on the first day of school. A stranger in a strange land. I look across the counter and see dark eyes locked onto me. Long lashes. Dark curly hair framing the kind of face that any guy would cross the street for. Just so he could get a closer look.

Well…you gonna just stand there and look, or you gonna put your mouth in gear, she says. I put my mouth in gear. Double espresso, I say. She nods and the ghost of a smile shows up in her eyes. Everybody’s first time should be special, she says. Like a date with destiny, she says. I guess you must be The New Guy. You guessed right, I say. And you? Rosalee, she says. My friends call me Little Italy. What do you do, she says. I write, I say.

She turns away and faces a stainless steel machine. It looks all kinds of ready, willing and able. She turns back and hands me a small white cup full of a dark, steamy liquid. I grab some silver and push it across the glass top. She shakes her head. On the house, she says. Just this once. We can say we’re introduced now. This might be the start of a beautiful friendship, I say.

She raises an eyebrow. You like Casablanca, she says. It’s a curse, I say. Now she smiles. Full face. Nice to meet you New Guy, she says. You too, Little Italy, I say. I turn and make for a slot against the far wall near the corner. Sit down, back to the wall. Eyes on full alert.

I reach down, lift up, and take a first sip of espresso. It hits my taste buds and disappears down my neck before I even get the chance to say wow!

I look over at Little Italy and she’s looking at a space above my head. I turn and see a box on the wall. I get the feeling that somewhere inside the box the number 1 comes to life. I close my eyes.

The curtains open and Bobby Zimmerman is standing at the mike. Guitar strapped on. Harmonica in the harness. Shelter From The Storm in the air.

A new coffee shop. An old Dylan.

Be cool…

I guess that means I’m a regular

Good morning Tuesday. It’s 8am on this side of the world. It’s been over a month since I was in the city centre, so I feel like a stranger when I walk into the coffee shop.

A second visit won’t get me a second glance. Surely I don’t warrant a double take. Then I come up against Little Italy. So…the usual, she says with a smile. I raise an eyebrow. Surprise surprise. I guess that means I’m a regular, I say. Oh, you got a long way to go down that road, she says. I just got a good memory. But let’s say you’re on the right track, she says.

There’s a young Italian-looking man standing beside her. He’s got hair on his head. I have hair on my face. We nearly have something in common. This is Chico, says Little Italy. He’s Brazilian. Just like my coffee, I say. Naaah…your coffee is Arabica, she says. Could be from Africa. Could be from the Caribbean. Maybe even China.

Chico smiles. She knows her coffee, he says. It’s a symbiotic relationship, says Little Italy. I stroke my chin. Symbiotic, I say slowly. I think I’ll make that my word of the day. All the right letters fall in all the right places, she says. And make all the right sounds, I say.

Little Italy brings the verbal dancing to a halt. You look like you could do with a large Americano with an extra shot, she says. You look like you know your customers, I say.

Chico does the necessary with the stainless steel machine behind them. I slip Little Italy some silver and take the tall mug to a spot in the corner. Life as a human being pretending to be a fly on the wall is complicated. An image of Jeff Goldblum swoops into my mind. I quickly swat it away and look around the room.

In a far corner Sweethearts are indulging in a quiet spot of mutually agreeable face-eating. Never speak with your mouth full, my mother used to say. I silently reply…yes, but what if your mouth is full with someone else’s tongue. My mother doesn’t reply. The intervening years in her coffin have diminished her ability to hold a decent conversation.

As I raise my Americano for a sip & sigh, the door opens and The Bookworm walks in. Large leather satchel strapped over shoulder and chest. Fast gait. Worn sneakers. Elephant cord pants. Heavy wool duffle coat. Toggle fastenings. Circular frame glasses. Hair unkempt but stylishly acceptable.

He whispers something to Little Italy and gestures with the index finger of his right hand. It points to the chalk board behind her. She answers. He nods. She smiles. He blushes.

A minute later he takes his hot chocolate to a table near the door to the gents toilet. Something in the way he moves makes me think it’s a good idea. He sits, puts the chocolate at the far side of the table. Reaches into his satchel. Takes out an old, leather bound volume. Opens it and begins to read.

Little Italy watches him from behind the bar. Turns to look at the Sweethearts who are now looking at each other, then nods at the box on the wall. The box has a love of all things old. From deep inside it pulls up number 79 and slides it carefully onto the turntable.

The curtains open. The Flamingos are on stage. I only have eyes for you, dear. Little Italy nods in satisfaction. The Bookworm lovingly turns another page.

Be cool…

The Rucksack Guy and The Curly Haired Blonde

Good morning Thursday. The green tea is in the cup...and the law is in the coffee shop. The boys in blue are wearing black bulletproofs and the girls behind the bar are wearing new black tees. On the front: The best coffee on the whole damned planet. On the back: Served by the best baristas.

The uniformed threesome sit with their lattes locked down safe and warm. Next to a curious individual typing furiously on an iPad. Onboard keyboard. No problem. Even has the sound of a manual machine. Just for effect. Just for atmosphere. Even got a bell on the return. The things you can do with an app these days.

The posse of lawmen speaks casual. Acts natural. Feels comfortable. A guy with a rucksack stands in front of Little Italy at the bar. He can't find his coffee money. He fumbles. He blushes. He finds and breathes a sigh of relief. All will soon be right in his double espresso world.

Outside, slow trams slither through the city centre. Inside, slow music oozes through the box on the wall. A little instrumental. Something from James Newton Howard. The Prologue from The Lady In The Water. Perfect for the lady in the coffee shop. Perfect for Little Italy. The piano solo just about sets the tone. Notes flow like lethargic ripples. Allowing the heart to slow. Pulse to settle. Giving life a chance to take a break.

Rucksack Guy takes his double espresso from her. Thanks her. Turns and looks for a space to chill. Take the weight off his boots. Give his bones a rest. Think about where he’s been and where he’s headed. Maybe somewhere special. Maybe nowhere in particular. Just as long as it’s as far away as possible from the one he left behind.

He still has her photograph in the bottom of his rucksack. In a metal case to keep it safe and unblemished. Away from sight. Never away from mind. Never away from memory. Too painful to look at. Too precious to get rid of.

He looks down at his rocket fuel, picks up the cup and takes a sip. As the liquid hits his tongue the door opens. Curly Haired Blonde walks in. Four inch heels. Skin tight leopard print pants. Ramones tee. Black leather biker jacket. Matching leopard shoulder bag. Chewing gum. Hips and lips moving in perfect harmony.

Rucksack Guy feels his pulse speed up. Just a touch. Maybe this is what he needs. A little distraction. A little me space. A little me time.

He sees Little Italy looking at him. Sees her head slowly moving from side to side. Sees her mouth shaping the words…too soon…too soon. Sees her look at the box on the wall and nod. The box gets the message and number 20 steps up and onto the turntable.

The curtains open. Lady in the Water drains away. Fleetwood Mac pours on stage. You can go your own way. Little Italy looks at Rucksack Guy. He’s smiling.

Be cool…

When The Man comes around

Good morning Tuesday. You ever sat down...leaned back...closed your eyes...and breathed in deeply as a little early morning coffee shop jazz filtered through the skin? It's a whole new patchwork quilt kinda comfort blanket. Wrap it around you. Feel the warmth seep into the bones.

Life may come kicking and screaming into the world. But easing yourself into the day deserves a more sedate approach. More considered. More pick me up slowly and put me down gently.

It might not be sunny on the outside, but it sure as Hell is on the inside. Inside the coffee shop the warmth is dripping off the walls. A serious, sweating, roly-poly of a man is servicing the mini-me coffee machine. It’s old and cold. It doesn’t produce the goods like it used to. It’s espresso deficient. Latte challenged. Minus Mocha and sans steam.

Little Italy is sympathetic. Empathetic. She knows that Big Brother is by her side. Not he of the Georgie-boy and 1984. This Big Brother is a stainless steel behemoth. The patron saint of the finest coffee creations. Large, shining, with whistles and bells and fast-action knobs, buttons and levers.

From the box on the wall the track shifts and music from the movie The Piano oozes like sweat from pores. It’s carried on pregnant air molecules to grateful ears. The score is haunting. The composer is Michael Nyman. The soundtrack album is rated in the top 100 of all time.

Who would have guessed? Who could have known? Who else but Little Italy? She knows that every now and then all the possible combinations of musical notes in the known world come together to work a little magic. All the sharps and flats put on a show, take a bow, and disappear into the wings. Until the next time.

She knows this. And so does The Man in Black. The Man sitting by the window. Not facing the world outside. Facing the one inside. Facing everyone who comes in looking for refuge and caffeine. When this man comes to town and heads for the coffee shop, folk move sideways and give up their sidewalk space.

When he reaches the door, he always finds it open. He doesn’t even go to the bar to order a drink. Little Italy always has one waiting for him. Large Americano. Four sugars. One short squeeze of toffee syrup.

Sitting on a table that has reserved written all over it. He always drinks coffee. He always stays an hour. He always leaves a mouthful in the bottom of the cup when he goes. And nobody ever sees him vacate the premises.

I can see him now. Sipping slowly. Right leg crossed over left. White skin. Black under black over black outfit. Neat black hair with a Superman curl at the forehead. Ice blue eyes scanning the room. Little Italy sees the scan. She nods at the box on the wall and the box shifts gear. Slides number 54 onto the turntable.

The curtains open. Johnny Cash is standing at the mike. Acoustic strapped on. Fully loaded. Everybody sits up and listens when the man comes around.

The Man in Black’s gaze rests on Little Italy. He smiles. She smiles. He winks. She nods. Head down. When it comes back up…he’s gone.

Be cool...

Thank you George

Good morning Tuesday...and hello Mr. Blue Sky. Sorry Jeff. Thanks George. Here comes the sun. No more winter overcoats. Not here. Not now. Well…not today anyway.

It's short sleeves not short tempers. Long smiles not long faces. Make love not hate. Make peace not war. Today I can feel the slow, slow...quick, quick slow of a blended start to the day. One pot of the steaming green infusion stuff, followed by a dark triple espresso. Bring me down then take me up. Pause for thought then feet don't fail me now.

I can feel the calm wash over me. I can hear the sound of the aircon pushing the notes into the background. I dial the volume of my own internal music speaker down a notch. Natural noise reduction technology kicks in and the blood coursing through my veins slows from a race to a jog. Then a casual walk.

Little Italy passes by the table. Sees the effect. Sees the smile. I’ll leave it fifteen minutes before I bring the espresso, she says. That okay? All I can manage is a nod. I’m too busy chilling from the inside out. I look around.

Standing at the bar is Hawaiian Shirt Bob. He looks like a bit part player from Hawaii Five O. Only he’s so big he’s more like Hawaii Ten O. He’s a single guy heart in a double guy body. Love is a stranger and the last time he was kissed it was by his cousin. He was sixteen and she was a nightmare in a floral frock and a panty girdle.

But that was then. This is now. And now he’s getting Goo-Goo Eyes from someone at a table over by the stairs leading to the balcony. Freckles is showing an interest. The look but don’t touch kind. She’s six feet three inches tall. Thin as a rake, and pretty as a picture.

She’s a size junkie and lonely as Hell. Small guys need not apply. No matter how drop dead handsome they are. No matter how hilarious they are. No matter how goddam clever they are. As long as they’re big, they’ll be on her radar. As long as they got a smile that makes her go weak at the knees, they’ll be on her wish list. She stopped having a to-do list a long, long time ago.

Hawaiian Shirt Bob shuffles forward to the head of the queue. Little Italy’s gaze travels up…and up. She smiles. Hello Bob, she says. You got bigger, she says. Yeah, last time you saw me I was a dwarf, he says. A fast laugh escapes Little Italy’s mouth. The usual, she says. The usual, he says.

She turns and lifts down an extra large white mug from the shelf above the stainless steel coffee machine. Big enough for two lattes. Fills it up and puts a smiley face in chocolate powder on the top.

Somebody’s giving you Goo-Goo Eyes, she whispers. Nods in Freckles’ general direction. Hawaiian Shirt Bob turns. Looks.