So today we went for coffee at that café around the corner that I’ve been dying to go to. The way I’ve been carrying on about the shop, one would think I actually love coffee. There’s just something about the smell of a coffee shop. I think it’s the blend of smells – the aroma of brewing coffee, all sorts of teas and cakes and pastries… Oh man!
I see you don’t like dogs too. It was funny the way you froze in mid-sentence when we turned the corner and came face to face with C and his dog. I would have laughed if I’d not been busy eyeing the dog myself. I don’t know when he got that big! I’ve been in the neighbourhood longer than you have and I’m sure this dog was a cute little puppy just last year or was it two years ago? Oh well. He’s absolutely humongous now. I don’t know what they feed him, or perhaps it’s her? I couldn’t exactly clarify at that point, and I really didn’t want to get into a dog conversation with C. I tried it once and missed a bus I’d been fifteen minutes early for.
We step aside stiffly to let them past – me saying hello to C with my eyes on the dog and you not speaking. I turn to look at you and you look absolutely petrified.
‘Are you alright?’
‘Yes, I am. I just don’t like dogs.’
‘You could have fooled me.’
‘I really don’t.’
‘I know, I was just teasing.’
It’s either you don’t do sarcasm or you’re too scared at this point for my brand of humour. You look a bit white, so I suggest we have our coffee outside at the tastefully decorated tables that adorn the space in front of the coffee shop so you can get some fresh air.
Minutes later, we are chatting away. I am soon transported to your childhood as you tell me about growing up in a family of eight children; your happy childhood; your hugely talented parents; living with your maternal grandparents, especially your grandfather who sounds like a bit of a maverick; your prowess as the sole female footballer in your village Under 10 team; and the sadness you felt when you had to leave it all behind at eighteen to go off to university.
My childhood was not as colourful as yours, I must say. It was OK, even interesting, but nothing grand. I tell you about my parents and my brother; my cousin who lived with us, because her mum had died, and became the big sister I never had; I tell you about my failed attempt at pop stardom – epic failure that. You beg me to play my guitar for you next time we meet up. You can play the banjo apparently and maybe we could jam sometime. I doubt it, as it’s been so long, but I don’t say anything. No point bursting your bubble just yet.
It’s soon time to head back. I have an appointment and you’re expecting a Skype call from family. Saturday afternoons rush by quickly, don’t they? And why am I already dreading Monday?!