Charlie J Forrest

“Hey, it could be worse; at least it’s not shit!” Dan Savage

This is a good one. I can feel it as soon as I clap eyes on it from across the street. It’s not a chain, or at least not one I’ve met yet, so who knows, maybe they can be a little more accommodating than the reds, greens and blues with their, “I’m sorry sir, it’s against company policy,” and their, “Please sir, you’re frightening the children!”

Inside the door there’s a good-sized queue. It’s the fidgety bit of rush hour. When people have got time to get a coffee, but only just. Tapping feet and nervous glances at watches, a crampt queue shuffling forward, everyone’s eyes on the menu, or the barista or the cups as they’re filled one after another, trying to spot which is theirs, as if it makes it arrive quicker. OS when I glance down at my crotch and quietly slip my belt open, nobody sees.

I shave my legs daily so that my trousers can slip as noiselessly as possible to the floor, pooled around my ankles, hobbling me. But that’s ok, I’m not gong to try to get away.

“Can I take your order sir?” says a man with a receding fringe that makes him look like a cockerel.

I order a grande cappuccino. He turns away and I feel the excitement build. He empties the coffee filter with a violent double strike into the bin, refills it and sets the percolations going. Then he grasps a large plastic milk bottle, pouring it free hand into the metal jug. I feel the tension rise within and without me as he scoops it under the steam nozzle. i can’t help but imagine the sight, the sensation of the pipe disappearing into the chill white liquid. Then he casually twists and valve and it’s happening. The mixture of boiling hot gas and cool liquid being thrust together. The nozzle gushing forth and transforming the milk into a simmering bubbling mass. I lick my lips, my fingers are clutched tight to the glass shelf, leaving greasy fingerprints hovering above the blueberry muffins. He pours the milk into the coffee, enriching it with the life-giving drug. All the while he uses a little spoon to hold back the last bit, the best bit, that little head to be added, untainted, on the very top.

“Would you like chocolate on top?”

I want to collapse into a puddle on the floor, how could he know, how could he see that those words were just what I needed to hear. He brings the mug over to the counter like the pervert that he must be, placing it right there in front of me while he grabs the little shaker and taints the head with brown speckles that darken as they melt into the warmth. It’s too much, I clench my eyes shut, holding that image of the first touch of chocolate sprinkles onto the foam as I sink to the floor in utter release.

Then there are voices, louder than before. How could I interrupt the sacred part of the day, how dare I hold up the rush hour queue with my selfish needs? Eventually the Police come. I recognise one of them. They take me to one side and take my statement, talk to me, talk to the barista, but by now all the other witnesses have gone, hurried off with their cardboard cups in hand and a story to tell that nobody will believe.

I get home and look at the large-scale map on my wall. With a heavy heart I pull out the tape measure, string and pencil and draw another, larger, circle encompassing the growing bulls eye radiating out from my home. More territory to cover, more coffee shops to try, the impossible search continues.