MEDIUM AMERICANO

A short story by Gill Perdue

- Gill Perdue

'Il just have a Cappuccino, no — actually can I have a, erm, whatchacallit — Americano?

They’re less calories, aren't they? Jim wonders, handing the menu back to the server, a gap-toothed girl who looks barely old enough to be out of primary school, never mind working in this busy café. He removes the cushion behind him in an effort to make more space between his belly and the table, otherwise he'll struggle to reach his coffee cup when it arrives. A new beginning, he promises himself. This will be the start of a healthier lifestyle. No snacking. Outdoor exercise. More socialising.

“Sure! What size would you like, sir?” the girl continues, tucking the menu under her elbow and pulling the table out a few centimetres so it's not pressing against his abdomen.

She smiles, pointing to a poster showing the mug sizes they serve. Regulo! Medio!! Grandio!!!. The biggest resembles a bucket.

“Oh — medium, thanks,” says Jim. “I mean, I'll have a Medio.” He tries to smile, feeling the edges of his mouth twitch. He’s not used to smiling. In fact, he’s not used to talking all that much recently. The past few months have been tough. He’s hardly been out at all. Grief has shrunk his world. This whole thing is Andy’s idea. It certainly didn’t come from him.

Left to his own devices, Jim would never leave the house except to pick up the groceries. He has the telly for company. It’s not that bad. And he made enough small talk in his taxiing years to last a lifetime. That was the great thing about her — she understood his need for silence when he’d come home after a long shift. They’d just sit together on the couch watching rubbish telly — no words necessary.

“Come on, Dad,” Andy had said when he visited last month. “This has gone on long enough. You gotta put yourself out there now.”