Mocha for Frankie

"Mocha for Frankie? Caramel Macchiato for Jenny? Chai Latte for Gregory?"

The young barista with the pixie cut and piercing green eyes called out as I looked up from my book.

It was quiet in the little coffee house on the promenade.

The salty air and call of the gulls satisfied my need to escape the empty barrage of meetings, appointments, sales calls and debriefs. A peppermint tea in an oversized mug. Water in my sight from my window seat and a quiet café as I caught up on reading. The mechanical clanks and buzzing of the espresso machine and inoffensive acoustic folk provided the perfect soundtrack.

I barely noticed the other diners. Aside from the white-haired lady at the table in front of me.

"Mocha for Frankie? Caramel Macchiato for Jenny? Chai Latte for Gregory?"

I wondered why Frankie, Jenny and Gregory weren't collecting their orders. Never mind though. Not my problem. Not my monkey, not my circus, as my mother used to say.

I smiled at Sandy, the barista with the pixie cut and a nose ring. She looked lost. It was a look I knew too well.

Still.

I turned my attention back to my book and drifted from the café just enough to find peace.

It was a bright, peaceful day with the sun shining through the modern, minimalist café. I chose it because it looked busy enough that there would be no awkwardness in being on my own in an empty room, but without feeling like I was boxed in.

Aside from Sandy, bless her, and the names she called out, I barely registered my fellow diners.

I was too lost in my book.

So lost, it seems, that I had not fully appreciated the narrative.

Three pages had merged into a sea of words as the waves crashed on the promenade beyond the window.

I retraced my journey and sipped my tea.

"Mocha for Frankie? Caramel Macchiato for Jenny? Chai Latte for Gregory?"

Andy's voice had a nice lilt to it. He had a man bun and a curious array of tattoos up his arm.

Stop. Read.

I placed my book down for a moment to contemplate the words I'd just read.

I stared beyond my faint reflection in the café window and watched the waves and the gulls.

"Mocha for Frankie? Caramel Macchiato for Jenny? Chai Latte for Gregory?"

I admired Sandy and people like her, though I felt sorry for them. The hard workers who just did their job and didn't complain. Each time she called those names out, she never once sounded exasperated or impatient, as though she'd said them a thousand times before.

Stop. Read.

"Annabelle stood, a shadow of her former self, stripped of everything that made her who she was. She had contemplated suicide. Wished so often she had succeeded. But they took her choices when they took everything else."

Sandy—no, Andy—rattled the espresso machine and knocked the filter against the bin, pulling me from the page.

His beard looked longer than I remembered. I found myself trying to recall whether he'd had one at all when I'd arrived.

"As Annabelle sat eating a no-frills, barely edible meal in the canteen, she found herself drifting, her eyes drawn to the door marked FIRE EXIT."

I knew how she felt. Annabelle. I was her.

I don't remember what led me to buy the book. I don't remember buying it at all. But something about the cover had pulled me in.

Rhyl Sands by David Cox. An almost carefree and bright stretch of sea, sky and sand, the painting carried a foreboding undercurrent. Half the canvas was occupied by gathering storm clouds. It felt as much like a warning as it did a memory.

I didn't expect it to hit home as much as it did. Like all good literature, though, it was under my skin.

The lights flickered unusually and, as I gazed beyond my book to my fellow diners, I felt a chill roll down my spine. Like someone had gently slid a hand down my back. I watched as one left, an old man with a bowler hat. But he didn't leave because two minutes later he was sitting opposite the old woman.

I saw another woman walking along the promenade, but a cluster of passing silhouettes swallowed her from view. When they cleared, she was sitting at the table just in front of me.

Perhaps I was overreacting. I'd been feeling out of sorts since I arrived.

Strange. I'm not even sure if I got the bus or drove here.

I shrugged off the thought.

Stop. Read. Chapter 101.

"Annabelle had taken to painting to while away the hours of solitude. Though a beginner, she loved the experience of choosing the paints, filling her palette, dipping into the yellow ochre and raw sienna to build the foreground in the bottom half of her canvas. It all came to her as if by magic."

I had always wanted to paint. To watch a picture come to life from the raw materials. But time had never been my own. Sometimes people make you afraid to find joy in new things, and after a while you stop trying.

"Lights out, Frankie. Lights out, Jenny. Lights out, Gregory. Lights out, Ms Ford," came a stern voice from the darkness. Annabelle was still in Rhyl, still watching the sea, until the clanking of the bars brought her back.