Chai Latte

I went in, and the first thing I did was locate my table. Ah good, no one sitting at it. That let me continue onto the next step; to look at the sandwich display, despite knowing full well I wasn’t going to purchase any of the items. I don’t know why I always looked; almost as if some part of me would suddenly decide that I did want something to eat. But no, not once since I started coming to this coffee shop have I ever spent money on food. Its always been about the coffee. And even then, only ever about the one flavour of coffee.

Actually sorry that’s a lie, there was that one time I tried a pumpkin latte during Halloween. Oh and that other time when I had a gingerbread latte; but that’s because my friend was with me and she was desperate to introduce me to her ‘Christmas in a cup’. I politely agreed, and that I could see myself having it again in the future. But I haven’t. I made a vow never to be unfaithful again.

Do you, Andrew, promise to live and love, to dedicate time and attention and devotion, to find a muse in the spicy comfort of the Chai Latte, until death does you part? Oh, I do.

Do you, Chai Latte, promise…no never mind that’s silly. It’s a cup of coffee.

I’m not that mental. I mean, I am, really. I’m on the autistic spectrum somewhere; the doctor told me once, and I’ve been happy with that vague diagnosis. It lets me put a label on my eccentricity. I think about a thousand different things at any one time, sometimes helplessly divagating from topic to topic and confusing myself and anybody who’s choosing to listen.

I guess, in a way, that’s what todays ritual is about. I order my chai latte – a large, of course – wait patiently for the barista to supply said drink, enduring either the laborious bored-with-my-job sighs of the male barista, I think his name is Gary, or Gareth, or Garret, or the chatty making-the-most-of-it-with-a-smile Leema (that’s her name, I asked once); then I smile, thank them, and retreat to my table.

I set everything out neatly. My diary / journal goes there, my pen of choice (varies between black and blue ink, or even sometimes red, although that’s a treat), my book (which obviously changes every so often following completion – but never abandonment, that’s simply not considered) sits at right angles to my diary, and then the tall latte on the right, far corner of my small table. It sits there because I drink with my right hand. I also write with my right hand, which means I can’t write and drink at the same time. This is fine, though; as I always pause for thought every few moments anyways.

I observe my companions; there are quite a few people in the café today, perhaps more than average. An older couple sit closest, quietly murmuring to one another about something. Two white lattes on the table. A mother and her child sit at one of the central tables; she’s prodding at the pages of a magazine whilst the boy sits tapping on his Nintendo. A skinny cappuccino and a milkshake on their table. A gathering of young adults on the big six chair-area near the exit; on the table beside their four flat whites and two diet Pepsi’s is the carefully laid out board of a complicated looking game. There’s a pretty girl over in one of the corner seats, her legs folded up and on her knees perches a thick paperback, hastily held open and being read with wild, rapt eyes. On her chair side little table…is that a chai latte also? The cinnamon sprinkle on the top betrays it so. I smile inwardly. She looks at me.

My eyes dart away. Caught! I pretend to be looking all over the room, as if thinking, then write nothing in my diary but make the motion with my pen. I glance back over at the girl. She’s back in her book of course, but I notice the tiny smile that wasn’t there before. I try to think nothing of this, but I scribble a notation in my diary of the occurrence.

I can’t bring myself to look at her again until she gets up, returning her mug to the counter. I watch her say her thanks to the barista, then, unexpectedly she shoots me a glance. I am caught unawares and my eyes drop instantly to the table, and when I look up again she has left.

I finish my diary entry from the previous day and of the morning, including the girl, and then think briefly on my task for the afternoon, which I briefly outline on paper. Then I slide everything into my Indiana jones bag and finish. I put the mug on the counter and express my thanks, and take my leave.

At exactly 12:15pm again the next day I enter the café. It’s always 12:15pm; that’s how long it takes me to get here from work, leaving at midday. Yes, my table is free, onwards to the counter. Its Graham, or Grant, or whatever, so he smiles his forced smile and asks for my order. I of course go for my usual chai latte, he asks if I’d like cinnamon, I say yes, I procure my drink after a short wait, then sit down.

As I set my things out on the table I find myself glancing into the corner, just to see…and yes, there she is. In fact, did I just catch her eyes flitting back down to her book? Something small makes me smile inwardly, and I return to laying out my miscellanea. This time I find it a little difficult to write; something niggling at me, turning my attention elsewhere. I look round the room, as per usual, enjoying the first sip of the chai latte.

A reading group is assembled around the big table this time, a continual but content murmuring as they discuss the chapter they’d all been carefully analysing. I was terrible at book reviews; I tended to use explosive exaggeration and flowery language, and never bother with the deep and meaningful morals. Or else I get lambasted for not liking the ‘popular’ novels and praising the ones that are less attractive to the common-or-garden cynic. What that says about me, or about the state of the opinion in today’s world, is open to interpretation.

I look down. I haven’t even picked up my pen yet. It’s been several minutes, and I’ve written nothing. Usually by this point I’ve at least written my daily action plan – a summation of what I’d like to achieve before I have to return to work at the end of my lunch hour. But no, nothing. Almost apologetically I look up over at the girl. Once again her eyes flit suspiciously, but she sips at her drink with no expression.

I start writing. Beginning, unusually, with “was that girl looking at me?” I had mentioned her the day before, you see, in the diary. Merely a side-note, describing her briefly and drawing a silly diagram of where in the layout she had been sitting. I continued with no justification, concluding, “I’m sure I’m just imagining things.” And then I continue into the days diary entry, recalling a conversation I overheard on the bus, and some silly asides from serving customers earlier. I am nearing the end of my drink when I hear a chair squeak and instantly my head goes up. I regret the speed at which I react, and the direction in which I look. Of course I know exactly what seat it was, of course I know who was sitting there – so when I look up and straight at her there is nothing I can do to seem offhand. She smiles at me, a definite, small noticing smile, and the, tapping the top of her chair, she shakes her shoulders in an apologetic manner, and a ‘whoops, that was a bit loud’ contortion of expression crosses her face. I can’t help but smile, just a little. I feel my face flush, however, and put my head down. I don’t, however, hide my smile. I want her to see it; I just don’t want to see her seeing it. That, of course, to any rational person, makes no sense. But I can’t help it. When I finally glance up again, she has gone.

I’m afraid the rest of that week went almost exactly the same every day. At 12:15, always 12:15, I would enter. She’d be there, I’d write in my diary that she was, and then at 12:45 she would leave. I concluded her lunch break must be slightly out of sync with mine.

The usual cycle of other customers continued unnoticed; I found that each day I was actually more interested in what the girl was doing, and exaggerating my own reactions forthwith. Hesitant peeps over the rim of my latte glass, a stolen glance every time I feigned a yawn. I even became aware that I would start and finish my daily look round the café, after I settled, would start and end on her. I blanched at this – what if she thought I was staring! Once or twice our eyes would meet and I felt a stab of electricity through my system that drew my eyes sharply back to the table, the diary, my book…anything.

One such day I was distracted further by a change in the baristas. Neither Gordon / Gerry nor Leema were behind the counter, but rather a pleasant looking girl with striking blue hair. When I ordered my drink she actively introduced herself – Tracy – to which I replied politely but sheepishly with my own name – then I got my drink and quickly retreated to my table. I was so taken aback by that interlocution that remained eyes sticking to the pages of my book for fifteen minutes. I hadn’t even noticed that no one had occupied the group table today. My eyes glued un-reading to the text, I heard murmurs from across the café and I glanced up in the direction of the group table - this is when I noticed the absence of presence – then I followed the murmurs round to the girl’s table. She was chatting to Tracy as she placed her miscellanea in her handbag, smiling openly at whatever was being said. I could hear nothing of note, of course, but a queer, unexpected thought entered my head. Was i…envious…? I put down my book and wrote the thought in my diary, expanding the thread. Has she met Tracy before? Or is Tracy just chattier than the other baristas? This latter observation was supported by our brief converse earlier, and I finished at that. When I looked up again, Tracy was wiping the table clean and the other girl had vanished. Suddenly caught out I found myself looking about, almost panicky. Then, there she was, standing near the entrance, and looking straight at me. I froze; she smiled, turned and left. I was mortified, and unable to concentrate on anything else except oblivion. I was nearly late back to work; I even forgot to return my latte glass to the serving counter.

At 12:15 the next day I was still standing at the door to the café. My morning, indeed even yesterday evening, had been a write off. I had been functional; I was aware of the passage of time and I vaguely recall saying hello and goodbye when required, but if you’d asked me I couldn’t have put any substance into what I’d done. And now here I was, hesitant about going into the café. Of course it was silly; of course I was being dramatic. Nothing had happened. Except, in my mind, something had. I couldn’t rationalise what, I couldn’t put to words, but I was now very, very aware that when I walked into the café, I’d need to see if the girl was there. But I wasn’t sure I wanted her to be. It sounds strange; when I thought deeply about it, and I had, my practicality had started dismissing it rightfully – all she had done was look at me. But she’d waited, intentionally, to see if I’d watch her leave. Had she seen me look about like a prairie dog? What would I do if she looks at me again when I walk in? Will she expect me to apologise? Will she expect me to say something to her?! I turned around. For the first time in months, I didn’t have a chai latte in the café that day.

The next day came and went as well. I didn’t go to the café. I didn’t even have lunch. I just existed for a day, then went home and disassembled my thoughts, interrogating and berating myself. Why was this affecting me so? Finally I took pen to paper, and, like downing a dram of whisky for Dutch courage, I wrote in harsh capitals, at the top of tomorrow’s page.

PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER. GO TO LUNCH.

At 12:15 I pushed open the café door and was immediately struck by lightning. The girl wasn’t sitting at her table. She was sitting at another table, the one closest to my own. As I entered she looked up, but I averted my eyes as soon as I could and forced my attention on the sandwich area. i picked out a vegetarian piece, not really concentrating. Tracy asked what I’d like, I said chai latte. She asked what size, I said large. She asked if there was anything else, I handed over the sandwich. She told me the price, I paid it. All without emotion, all without eye contact. Breezily, she asked ‘you okay, darling? You look a bit pale’. I think I muttered something back but it was non-committal. Actively making eye contact with no one, making sure my attention looked as if it was drawn inexorably elsewhere, I sat down at my table.

As I opened up my satchel and began placing my items as ordered as ever, I realised then the foreign object on the table. It had not been there when I walked in, it had not been there when I was at the counter ordering the drink, but it was, incontrovertibly, there now. It wasn’t anything intrusive; just a folded piece of paper.

Determinedly, I slid the paper to one side and placed my diary, book and drink in the usual locations. I took a deep draught of the chai latte – burning my mouth and throat but filling my entire head with spice and fervent aroma – and then, sufficiently focused, i unfolded the note, completely oblivious to and hugely anticipatory about its content.

Glad you’re back – Stephanie.

I wasn’t sure how to react, although I was now thinking how wonderful a name Stephanie was. I sat, back straight, looking at the paper. In my head I had fallen into a white hole of nothing – I couldn’t think, I couldn’t make a decision, I didn’t even know what I was thinking about, really. Although I was desperately trying to look through eyes at the back of my head to see what the girl – Stephanie – was doing. I angled my head ever so slightly and tried to look over my shoulder. Thank goodness, she had her back to me. She was looking the other way, likely reading her book. I took a huge drink of burning chai again, but it only fuelled a strange sense of burning, claustrophobic anxiety. I took the note, scribbled ‘thanks – Andy’ on it, placed it down on the table with a forced exhalation of air, downed the rest of the chai latte, now probably now leading me to the onset of a diabetic explosion, packed everything into my bag and got up. I think Tracy smiled and winked from behind the counter, but I was by then running for the exit, my head spinning. My sandwich, uneaten and unopened and completely forgotten, was left on the table.

I was a mess the rest of the day. I even left work early thanks to a conscientious manager who recognised a massive sugar crash when she saw one. I lay on the couch that evening with a pounding headache followed by an utterly fruitless, twitchy sleep.

The next morning took a lot of pacing and trying to release the menagerie of butterflies that were crowding my stomach, before I even decided to go to work. Even more so when I left the building at 12 and sped, meandering, to the café, trying to make my legs do one thing whilst my mind wanted so much to hide under a duvet and turn all the lights out. Even when I got to the door, another ten minutes went wasted as I dithered at the handle, staring at my reflection in the window. It was 12:25 when I went through and entered the café proper.

The instant I was in, Gary behind the counter looked up, smiled, and pointedly nodded his head towards the seating area. Briefly confused I followed his gesture, and my eyes fell upon my table. Frozen for a second, but then finding some strength from somewhere in the ether, I went to sit down.

Stephanie was sitting there, not looking up but with her eyes drawn stringently to her book. In front of her sat not one, but two large chai lattes.