The Biscuit

The man drops his hard-backed novel onto the table next to ours, unzips his jacket and pulls out his arms. Noticing his inside-out shirt, he strides with legs slightly wide to the cafe bathroom.

“Some fruit toast?” asks Andy putting down the menu. I nod. “Two lattes? What size?”

“Medium,” I say. “A mug.”

While Andy is at the counter ordering our food, a grey-haired man clicks across the wooden floor before lowering his long Lycra-clad body onto a metal chair at the corner table.

Andy reappears, and so does the man with his fixed inside-out shirt. Andy drops onto the chair that’s at right angles to mine. We sit close, heads together, chatting quietly. The man in the shirt sits in front of his book, silent.

Our coffee arrives with a smile: a latte in a mug for Andy, one in a medium glass for me. My smile dies. “I wanted a mug.”

” But you said you wanted a medium coffee.”

” I definitely said mug.” I ignore the glass and draw back on my chair.

There’s a tiny teddy biscuit on Andy’s teaspoon. He grasps it between forefinger and thumb and lays it on my saucer. Without thinking, I pop it in my mouth, and the sweet treat melts the complaining words upon my tongue. I lean forward, pick up my glass, cradling its warmth with my hands. I inhale the roasty aroma, and then I sip the smooth medium coffee slowly.

I see a second man dressed in figure-hugging leggings, balancing his bike against the cafe’s outside wall. A moment later, he appears. His eyes scan the room before his cycle shoes click towards the corner table.

Andy and I crunch our nut-topped fruit toast, melted butter dripping down our fingers. And we comfortably talk about nothing in particular. When there are only crumbs left on our plates, we drain our mug and glass, and then Andy asks, “Shall we go?”

I retrieve my coat – an adult daughter’s castoff – from the back of my chair and give it to my love. He holds it open while I direct my arms through the holes. I fasten a button, adjust my cashmere scarf – a treasured present from a friend – and thrust my fingers into my black woollen gloves. Andy grasps my hand.

We leave behind the two cyclists resting their legs and the man with his head in his book. And also, the newly arrived woman, who leans towards her husband, her fair hair kissing her wrinkled face. She doesn’t raise her eyes as we walk by.

We climb into our car, and I say, “Did you notice how the coffee mixup didn’t spoil our outing? Once upon a time, we’d have argued about whose fault it was that I ended up with a glass instead of a mug. I’d have sulked for hours.”

But not today. Did I decide to act my age?

Or perhaps it was the biscuit.