Cold Coffee

I hate the rain. Especially this early. The looney hour. Who gets up at 5 am? I must be a madman I’m thinking to myself. A madman I'm thinking.

I was waiting for her in the rain, again.

We were off to work. Something big, as it always was. Something big and exciting to take me out of this damn rain.

I wrapped my coat tight around me. My suit would be ruined. Supposed to be here at 5 am is all I can keep thinking.

Why is she always damn late, I’m thinking, always damn late and I’m stood out in the rain and in the cold because she's damn late again.

I looked about in the darkness. I saw a place. A light. I wandered to the edge of the park where she was supposed to be, and I saw a nice little coffee shop with red brick and a swinging chalk sign and nice little foggy windows from all the heat inside and I knew that’s where I’d go.

Maybe I’d be late for a change I’m telling myself. I’ll be late this time; see how she likes that.

In I go.

Into the heat, out from the rain, the cold, the dark, and I order us drinks. She can have hers when she gets here. I bet it'll be cold by then. I hope it's cold because she's late and it's 5am and I'm stood about in the rain. The Little Man with black hair smiles at me and speaks softly, and blearily. It is 5 am after all.

I hand him the money, he smiles, does a little bow, and gets his little brown takeaway cups. Fancy ones, that won’t ruin the grass or kill the dolphins. He pours into them with skill, like he’s blowing glass or casting silver in moulds. Warm perfection. Perfect for a morning like this, I think to myself.

I take our two coffees and an orange juice for myself, wish the Little Man with black hair a good day and make my way back to the park.

She’s still not there.

I ring her, no answer. I ring her again and again and again. I’m in the cold again. It’s raining and I’m trying to keep our nice coffees dry. My coat is fat and wet. I see a car but it drives right on past and kicks up a little brown water at me. She doesn't answer and doesn't answer.

I tuck under a tree and take a swig of my orange juice. That’ll wake me up, I’m thinking. That'll give me the zap I need, I'm thinking.

I’m more awake now. I’m still cold and wet, but I'm awake. I know I am because I see him from across the street.

He’s shuffling towards me with a dirty blanket over his shoulder and his old trainers with a toe hanging out. He has one of those old wool hats with a bobble on top. He’s got a long beard, a long mop of hair, a long face, a long blanket, a long life, a long night, and a long story.

I turned away. I did. I didn't want to see.

“Hello mate,” he says.

I turn and try to smile. As good as a smile you can cook up at 5am in the rain when she was supposed to be here an age ago.

“Morning,” I say, shuffling away. I don’t want any dirt on my suit.

“How you doing, son?” he asks. He dashes a smile so full you’d have thought he’s just spent the night in the Ritz.

“Fine. This rain though. Ey?” I say.

“Oh. It’s something all right. Spent the night in it,” he says, soaked. His coat, his face, his hat, his soul. His hair is matted down his face like pondweed and he wipes some out of his eye, real careful.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any coppers? For an old tramp like me?” He says. He looks at the floor before I can answer.

I can't remember if I did. I hope I didn't, because he didn't get any coppers from me. I won't have kept any, I tell myself. I'd have given them to him.

“Sorry. If I did, I’d give them to you.” I says.

“I know mate. I know.” He smiles at me.

He must know me better than I know myself. I’m glad he thinks so.

“I got a viewing for a house tomorrow,” he says. “Well. Flat. But me own flat it’d be. Council put me onto it. Get me outta this park.”

He smiles and looks around like he's going to miss it.

“I hope it goes well.” I’m trying to smile. "Good luck."

There’s that coffee shop around the corner I’m thinking.

He looks up at the black sky and more cold rain comes down and showers him entirely. He gasps in the fresh cool and his eyes flicker a little.

"That's the stuff," he says.

But I'm not listening. I'm still thinking. I could run over and get him a little pretty cup of something. But he doesn’t understand pretty.

I could give him one of my coffees.

He shakes his long hair and smiles at me.

It’s too far to walk. She’d probably be here by the time I went over there again.

I could give him my coffee. But then I wouldn’t have one, is all I’m thinking. She wouldn’t have one. But he doesn’t have anything.

But it’s cold.

I needed that coffee this morning, I'm thinking. She comes to get me; I couldn’t leave her out, could I?

I hand him the bottle of orange juice.

“Would you like this?” I say. “I’ve had a drink out of it, but...”

He takes it from me, ever so gently, floats it up to his mouth. He smiles at me, fully; so full I can’t remember the last time I felt my face stretch out like that.

He pours it into his mouth like liquid gold.

He drinks; hope and happiness and warmth and love and safety and his little flat and a warm bed and no more rain and no more cold and no more shame. He drinks it like it was all the hope one man could ever drink. He drinks it down like it was his own little bottle of orange juice, waiting in his little flat. He drinks it down and he’s smiling.

He finishes, takes his bottle to the bin. He looks at me and his face is aglow. The taste of what he’d missed. His little flat. His own bed. His own little bottle of orange juice. His own liquid gold. His own everything in the whole damn world.

I hope he got his little flat.

“You’re a good lad,” he pats me on the shoulder. “Good lad, you are.”

I'm glad he thinks so. I hope he's right.

He walks away into the darkness. He walks towards his flat. He walks towards his own bottle of orange juice.

I look at my watch. She’s late. I look at my watch. I think about how I don’t want her to come. I want to stand in the rain and learn a little something about myself.

I pick up my coffee and it’s cold. I don’t want cold coffee. I take a sip, but it tastes sour. I spit it on the floor. Bloody sour, who can ruin coffee at 5am, I'm thinking. But then again, I think I know the answer.

I look at the little coffee shop. I start to run over to it. I'll buy another one, buy her another one, buy him his own one. But he's already gone into the dark and the rain.

And then I'm standing in the middle of the road. And no one comes. He's gone. My coffee's sour. And it's raining.

She’s late and I don’t want her to come and it’s raining and cold and I’m standing in the dark with my cold coffee and I don’t want her to come. I want to drink some of his drink. I think about calling him but the roar of the heavy rain keeps everything soft. I want some of that liquid gold he drank down that made him glow.

I call out to him, but he doesn't hear me.

I want some of his drink. I don't want cold coffee. I want some of that magic that he had. His smile. I want some of that, to try and bring my smile back again. I take off my coat and I let the rain hit my face.

It's fresh. It wakes me up alright.

More than that little bottle of juice did.

I call for him again, but he's gone into the whole world. His whole new world.

I don't wait for her to come and I let the rain cover my suit in cold, fresh water. The Man with black hair comes to the door of the coffee shop and watches me, oddly.

I call him again. He doesn't answer. I look up at the sodden black sky, and in the abyss, I wonder what he would have made from my cold coffee in its little brown cup.

What would he turn it to, the alchemist, I wonder.

And as I stand in the rain and don't wait for her to come, I’m still wondering.

And I’m still wondering.