Words over coffee

A short story by Phaedra Patrick

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Serving cakes and cups of coffee all day had taught Kate Morrow how to read people before they said a word.

She could spot a cappuccino-with-extra-sprinkles type a mile off, or that a harassed mum juggling toddlers lived for a double espresso. But the man in the corner who pored over crosswords for hours was trickier to work out. He wore the kind of tweed suit only found in vintage shops, with a neat two-pointed handkerchief in his pocket, and his hair poked out from beneath his flat cap like feathers from an old pillow. He looked rather lost and lonely - something Kate could relate to.

Since moving from Australia to the UK for her fiancé — who'd then promptly cheated on her — Kate hadn't expected to feel curious about anyone, especially not a crossword-obsessed stranger in tweed.

The man didn’t speak much, just a brief thanks when she brought over his builder’s tea and a wedge of Victoria sponge. He was often the last customer to leave. At the end of her shift, her feet throbbed but she dreaded returning to her silent flat. The summer nights felt endless without someone to share them with. As she swept the floor, the man was still here, tapping his pen against his teeth like a woodpecker.

Kate thought crosswords were dull and old-fashioned, probably fine when she was three times older. She sidled up to him and cleared her throat, indicating it was closing time.

The man looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Bad day?” he said. “Yeah, tell me about it," Kate muttered, kicking at a sugar sachet welded to the floor. “I'm supposed to serve coffee not clean up a crime scene.”