I like your trousers

I exit the office burst­ing with self-esteem and skip out onto Swan­ston Street with an impromptu soft-shoe shuffle of which Gregory Hines would have been proud. It’s a beau­ti­ful day, the finest in nearly a dec­ade, for today I am bound for a café at which I intend to pur­chase a cup of coffee.

Full strength coffee.

It’s been more than eight years since I gave up all caf­feine after I dis­covered it was mak­ing me ter­ribly ill. Over the past five, I’ve slowly been work­ing it back into my life, begin­ning with two years of almost caffeine-free green tea, then three of black tea — at first just an exper­i­mental half-cup of Girlie Grey in the safety of my kit­chen, then as my kid­neys grew reck­less entire pots of Irish Break­fast at street cafés like a com­mon har­lot. It was fant­astic, and my head reeled like a Scot­tish dance party, but I main­tained my dis­cip­line. I had a goal, and today I am ready to grasp it. The tea isn’t doing it for me any­more. My body is whole again. I need a coffee.

I jeté into the café, eleg­antly, but not show­ily; the kind of thing Gene Kelly might appreciate.

‘Good­ness,’ says the barista, ‘but aren’t you limber!’

‘I am!’ I exclaim. I adopt a cod-Russian accent. ‘De danser, he alvays stretch before he order de cof­fee, da?’

‘Da indeed!’ says the barista.

‘Da!’ I exclaim again, execut­ing a plié which only ret­ro­spect­ively seems excess­ive. Right now, I’m in the moment. I’m filled with joy. The barista and I share a laugh.

‘What can I get you?’ he asks.

‘I would like,’ I say, tast­ing the long-anticipated words on my lips, ‘a latte. To go.’

‘Com­ing right up, Bary­sh­nikov,’ he smiles, and gives me a wink. I return it, even though I nor­mally frown at people who wink at me on the grounds that it’s las­ci­vi­ous and for­ward, and mer­rily per­use the paraphernalia, won­der­ing if a per­son order­ing cof­fee here has ever been so delight­fully whimsical.

He sets the machine and looks at me once more. ‘I like your trousers,’ he says.

It’s as though God is tick­ling me. These are my favour­ite trousers and no one ever notices them. Until right now I have never had this thought.

‘Aren’t they won­der­ful?’ I say.

‘They’re beau­ti­ful,’ he says. ‘So well cut. Come around the counter so I can see them.’

I come around the counter and he sees them.

‘Good­ness, they fit so well!’ he says. ‘That’s it, I must have them. Whip them off.’

‘Oh, get away with you,’ I say mock-coquettishly, ‘I don’t give it up that eas­ily.’ This banter, I think, is going really well. We’re hav­ing a great laugh, me and my new friend the barista. ‘Per­haps some other time.’

‘I get off at five!’ he cries. ‘It’s a date!’ We laugh again.

‘Well, here’s your cof­fee,’ he says. He hands me my change. ‘My name’s Justin, by the way.’

He shakes my hand in a way that changes things.

‘Um, Mat,’ I say.

‘See you soon Mat,’ says Justin.

I walk back to the office.

‘Look at this!’ says my col­league Patsy. ‘The first proper coffee!’

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘What’s with you? I thought you’d be delighted.’

‘Well, look, I — listen, do you know Justin from the café?’

‘Sure, he’s a great guy, always jok­ing, lots of fun.’

‘Yes! He’s a joker, yes? Likes a joke?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Thank God. For a minute there I thought I’d just acci­dent­ally arranged a date with him.’

Patsy blinks at me. ‘His boy­friend just dumped him.’

I sip my cof­fee slowly. It’s really hot.

…to be con­tin­ued in I still like your trousers