A word, a whirr and the air is cappuccino scented. You widen your eyes at me over your heavy-rimmed frames (The Female Eunuch under one arm) and say you can’t read me, then ask me to stay for “just one more” cup of tea.
It’s already half past two.
Outside, taxis blaring; inside we sit staring at one another or the wall, stroking this and that of one another, or not at all. We’re sharing thoughts we’ve always wanted to against the black&white flicker of a picture show.
You claim innocence but there’s a blaze of understanding when you look at me and I glance at a coffee stain on your jeans then quickly knock the cup against my teeth and blush as a bitter drop wets my tongue.
You say nothing, making everyone else in this late-night café seem so vanilla.
Your weight shifts and I realize my tea’s gone cold again.
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