The café is streaked with weak rays of sunlight, putting into sharp focus the dust motes aimlessly tumbling through the air. Marie traces their movements as she turns to face the café’s glass front.
It is rare enough to catch any natural light in these increasingly gothic Autumn mornings, she thinks.
Marie closes her eyes and rests her chin on her hands, hoping to be enveloped by whatever warmth can penetrate through the single-glazed windows. To the casual onlooker, she looks peaceful. Only a close observer, resting their gaze on her hunched shoulders and the slight furrow of her brows, might recognise signs of her unease.
Marie tips her head on its side to rest more comfortably on her intertwined fingers and breathes deeply, trying to drown out the clanging of coffee cups, the hissing of the milk steamer and the drone of animated conversation around her.
Francis has taken her seat opposite of Marie and is silently watching her best friend. They have already exchanged their hellos and now Francis is unravelling her black wool scarf from around her head and shoulders.
“You really are one of a kind Marie. I don’t know anyone else who manages to sunbathe in this weather.”
She always reminds me of a cat when she is like this, Francis thinks, as she sheds her coat and finally settles into her chair.
Marie doesn’t move, but a smile lights up her face. She doesn’t want to be pulled back into reality just yet. The illusion is only broken when the heavy front door of the café is pushed open wide by a mother clutching the hand of a toddler.
The sudden rush of cold wind makes her skin prickle underneath her long-sleeved baby pink shirt, and she finally opens her eyes. Rubbing her shoulders for warmth, she thinks back with regret to the weeks she could have spent sunbathing that Summer.
Marie turns back to her friend, and stretches her arms above her head with exaggerated gestures.
“I wouldn’t mind being a cat. You lounge around all day and snuggle up on the couch with soft, warm blankets. You’ve got your own space, you get fed, you are loved - there is an abundance of cuddles…”
Marie returns her chin onto her again interlaced hands, and focuses her eyes on some undefined spot behind Francis. “Doesn’t it sounds like a dream?”
Francis snorts, and waits for her friend to steer the conversation down the winding path of the pros and cons of modern feminism. When Marie doesn’t, Francis gently prompts: “And yet - as a feminist.”
“And yet - as a feminist- ”
But before they can continue to amble towards the conversation’s predetermined destination, a waitress materialises at their table and asks for their order.
The friends explain they have not had a chance to look at the menu yet, but would like some tap water. As the waitress departs, Marie casts her gaze pointedly at the large paper menu in front of her. “We should probably have a look at this” she says, squinting in concentration at the tiny print.
Francis knows full well that Marie can’t read the menu. Marie’s eyesight has been getting worse, but she has so far refused to go to the optometrist. And Marie knows she knows. But they also both know that Marie would never admit to any of it.
Francis pushes back her prescription glasses to the top of her nose, picks up the menu and traces it with her finger, upholding the faint illusion that Marie is following along on her own menu.
“Coffee…” Francis begins. “I think it’s too late for coffee now - ”
“Yes it’s already 4:33pm,” Marie interrupts. She has consulted her Apple Watch, which displays the glowing numbers in extra large font.
Francis can’t help rolling her eyes in response. “So. Too late for coffee, and we hate decaf. We could have”, she shudders at the thought, “a Beetroot Latte - but we did hate that last time so maybe not.” Marie makes a scoffing noise to signify her approval.
“We also refuse to pay £4 pounds for a bottle of sparkling water, and there is too much sugar in lemonade…” Francis trails off as she quickly descends down the menu with her finger. Marie nods along.
Francis now turns to the right side of the menu but skips over the items completely. She turns the menu around and is greeted by an illustration of a dancing bear balancing on a tightrope, complete with a little party hat and tray, balancing a coffee cup. The café’s logo.
“Hey, you skipped over a whole section there!” Marie points at her own menu.
Francis slowly and deliberately pulls down her glasses to the tip of her nose, and raises her eyebrows for comic effect. “Mhm?” is all she says, as Marie exhales loudly and leans back in her chair.
After a short staring contest, Francis cocks her head and smiles. The matter is thereby dropped.
Francis explains that the last section was dedicated to alcoholic drinks. And after the ‘hangover from hell’ last week, hadn’t they agreed to never drink again?
Marie knows Francis means well, but she can’t help but feel slightly offended. The hangover was bad, yes. But she had simply underestimated the fact that her mid-30s self might not stomach the shots on top of the buckets of unidentifiable cocktail mixes, as well as her 20-something self. And it had after all afforded her the perfect excuse to spend the entire weekend in bed, watching back old episodes of the OC.
“Yes, perhaps you’re right Francis. I shouldn’t really descend into alcoholism just because of a bad break-up right?” she says humourlessly.
Francis’ face darkens and her face turns concerned “No, obviously I don’t mean you’re -“
Yet Francis is disrupted again by their waitress approaching the table with two glasses of tap water, which she distractedly places on the table with a rather aggressive thump. The water sloshes over the side of the glasses and spills on the table. The waitress doesn’t notice, and pulls out her notebook and pen from her embroidered apron. She asks again for their order.
With a forced smile Francis looks up from the menu and, in an effort to get rid of the waitress quickly, asks for two pots of tea, and do they have any fresh ones? The waitress turns around to look towards the café counter, and the neatly stacked rows of tea boxes stored behind it. Still facing away from the table she puts up her finger and mumbles something along the lines of ‘let me just check’.
“Wait actually, sorry…” Marie calls after the waitress but she has already turned her back and walked away.
With an exaggerated sigh Marie turns back to the table: “Francis - you know I don’t drink tea? I’ll just get a hot chocolate.”
Francis, momentarily distracted with calculations of the sugar content in a hot chocolate, takes an extra second to process the first part of the sentence. With an incredulous look she stares at her friend. “What are you talking about? Of course you drink tea.”
Marie defensively folds her arms in front of her chest, her irritation radiating off her like heat waves. For Francis the entire café fades into the background noise as she stops and, for the first time since they sat down, focuses her entire attention on her friend.
“I know for a fact you like tea.” Francis enunciates slowly.
“I promise you, Francis, you have never seen me drink a cup of tea in my life -” Marie responds icily.
“But that is absolutely ridiculous” Francis cuts her off. ”I am absolutely sure that I have.”
“You’re not listening to me Francis. I have not. Ever. Liked. To drink. Tea.” Marie emphasises the last word with venom. “Why would I ever drink hot water with…dead leaves?”
Francis can’t believe the face that Marie is making. She removes her glasses and pinches the top of her nose between her index finger and thumb, sifting through memories of the last 10 years of their friendship. She sees the two of them walking arm in arm through the plush green landscape of their favourite park, sweating together at the gym, panting and laughing as they stumble through university, jobs, chaotic family lives, through cafés and pretentious wine bars. She tries to think back to the years they spent living together. Did she not have a single memory of Marie drinking tea? Wasn’t that impossible? But then, an image materialises that categorically proves Marie wrong.
Francis releases her nose and replaces her glasses. “You’re wrong Marie. I remember now. It must have been winter two years ago. You had that new haircut you hated, and you were looking into some dubious schemes to grow your hair super quickly.”
A dark shadow crosses Marie’s face. Of course she remembers. She will never forget the hairdresser’s plump face, smiling down at her, while she sat helplessly in that chair and watched chunks of her precious hair falling to the floor. She remembers how the dismembered remnants of her hair were ruthlessly brushed away in a dustpan and disappeared in a nondescript black waste bin. She reaches into her now shoulder length hair, relieved to find it back to a decent length. She also notices it is a little bit greasy.
“Why would you bring that up again?” Marie stares daggers at her friend.
Francis is taken aback by the coldness in her friend’s voice. In an effort for reconciliation she says softly: “It really wasn’t that bad. The shorter hair really suited you.”
But you don’t know anything Marie thinks. You don’t know how much it hurt. Not only the fact that suddenly her head felt half a kilo lighter. It was having to watch the disappointment on Mark’s face. She feels nauseous just thinking about it.
Francis reaches out her hands across the table and continues in a soothing voice: “I’m sorry to bring this up again. I just remember that shortly after the hairdresser you got sick. You couldn’t leave the house and I wasn’t around because of work, or something. I know Mark wasn't around either - I can’t remember why.” Because he was useless and interested in no one but himself, sheadds mentally.
Marie cocks her head and drums her fingers on the table, nods. Yes that was what she had toldeveryone. But she didn't really have the flue. She just couldn’t stand Mark's constant disapproval anymore. However hard she’d tried to convince him otherwise, he hated her new hair. Why hadn’t she asked him before cutting it? Why hadn’t he been consulted, he would ask. Only now that they were no longer together, could she see how bizarre the whole situation had been. She surely hadn't irrevocably changed just because she had cut off some of her hair? On the other hand, sometimes she can't help but think that if she had never gone to the hairdresser, maybe she would be wearing his ring right now. She looks at Francis, and knows exactly what her friend would have to say about that.
“…So I ordered you a box of selected herbal and fruit teas. I remember this so clearly. I saw you drink a cup of tea from that box. I am sure of it,” Francis concludes.
Marie leans back in her chair, trying to puzzle together the bits of explanation she has missed. She places her hands in front of her face in a prayer, pressing her thumbs into her lower lip.
“Right. Okay. While it is true you bought me the tea - now let me finish before I lose my train of thought Francis,” she releases her hands and holds them in her lap.
“It is true you ordered me a box of teas. I was so confused when I opened the parcel and found tea? Like why? But then I thought maybe you got confused? And it was, after all, really sweet that you thought of me and sent me something.”
Francis looks confused. “Wait. Okay.” She pauses to gather her thoughts. “So you, truly, do not like tea?”
Marie leans back and shakes her head.
“I did try one. A tea bag from the box I mean. I thought maybe you got me like special tea that isn’t really tea? So, I made myself a cup. Of course I don’t have a kettle, but then I remembered I have that hot water function on my coffee machine. And I sent you a photo of me with that cup of tea to say thank you. But… I hated it. At first it burnt my tongue and then I left it to cool and it turned very bitter.”
A whole range of emotions cross Francis’ face while Marie speaks.
“But why would I gift you a selection of teas, if you hate tea?” Francis is trying hard to keep her voice steady, but her eyes can’t hide the anguish and embarrassment she is feeling.
“Marie, I can’t believe it. I’m so sorry. I mean, you don’t have a kettle? You’d think I’d have noticed that.” What kind of friend does that make her?
Marie can read Francis’ emotions easily, and she suddenly feels sorry for her. So she adjusts her tone to sound more light hearted. “Maybe, subconsciously, you were trying to tell me I was drinking too much coffee? For next time just remember I prefer a hot chocolate,” she winks.
Francis’ last emotional lock crumbles to dust when she realises how willing Marie is to forgive her, is even trying to make her feel better. When all she can think is that she's been nothing but a bad friend. A giant sob escapes from Francis’ throat. Propelled by her sudden rush of emotions, Francis awkwardly half kneels in front of Marie and throws her arms around her friend's pale shoulders. “I’m really sorry I’ve been such a shitty friend,” Francis mumbles into the pink fabric of Marie’s shirt. She can smell the orange-scented fabric conditioner.
Marie refuses to speak. Her face is turning blotchy with her efforts to repress the sobs that are dangerously close to spilling out of her. So she simply hugs Francis back. After a few moments, Francis releases Marie and returns to her chair.
They both grab the napkins the waitress left earlier and noisily blow their noses. It is only when they realise they are exactly mirroring each other, that laughter bubbles up. They soon descendinto hysterical giggling, then body-shaking cackles. Tying to catch their breath, they twist away from each other in their chairs. It takes them several minutes to return to a semblance of normality, faces blotchy and bodies trembling.
Dabbing her eyes with her sodden napkin, Francis announces cheerfully: “You know what. I think you’re right. I think I was really subconsciously trying to tell you that you drink too much coffee.
The scandalous amount of money you paid for that monster -“ she disrupts herself by descending into another bout of uncontrollable laughter, immediately joined by Marie. “- of a coffee machine. I’m so scared of breaking it! You know I have never made myself a coffee at your house.”
**********************************
The waitress has her elbow propped up against the counter, only a few meters separating herfrom the friends’ table. She has been watching their frankly bizarre exchange. She would never act like that in public. She shakes her head and picks up her notebook and pen. She’d better bring them some new napkins.
When she reaches the table, the waitress asks cheerfully what the friends would like? Clearly tea is not an option, but the café does have a wide selection of other beverages. The two friends, still breathing hard, turn an even darker shade of red.
They share a conspiratorial look. Marie shrugs. Francis nods, and is about to speak when she thinks better and consults the menu once again, her finger hovering over its far right corner. Marie breaks into a smile and nods.
“We’ll have a bottle of the house white please, thank you.”
“Sure. Any food with that?” The waitress scribbles on her pad.
“Do you have any olives?” Marie interjects.
Francis’ eyes widen in panic, but Marie only giggles and apologetically turns to the waitress.
“Sorry, it’s a bad joke. Ignore me.” She pats Francis’ hand, "I know you’re allergic.” The waitress mumbles something under her breath and shakes her head in disbelief, but adds a note on her pad just in case.
When the waitress is out of earshot, Francis leans over the table and motions for Marie to do the same.
She whispers: “Marie. My dear, dear Marie. I am - truly - so sorry. And I don’t mean the tea, well I am also sorry for that obviously. But I think more generally, I feel like I haven’t been there for you. Iknow the break-up has been super hard on you, and maybe I just don’t really know how I can best… support you.” At least he’s finally gone she thinks, but she bites her tongue. Instead she continues: “I just don’t know what you need. Do you want to talk? Or do you want to never talk about him again? Please, please, tell me.”
Marie hesitates. Like a balloon slowly deflating, she sighs, then slumps her shoulders and finally puts her head on the table. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, in and out, three times.
Then she pulls herself together again: “Let’s drink that bottle of vino first, okay?”
Francis nods in agreement.
They stay silent until the waitress returns with the wine, and two glasses.
The friends bring the glasses together with a clink and small waves ripple across the surface of the clear liquid. Yet the wine stays securely within the confines of the glass.
“I hereby solemnly promise to never make you drink tea again,” Francis declares.
“I’ll drink to that!” Marie shouts, knowing full well they are turning heads once again.