Coffee

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Coffee with Sara was like breakfasting with a one night stand.

She had been assertive on my doorstep. I felt the need to define some sort of relationship even before it began. Neither of us spoke was we walked the hundred or so yards to the mouth of the lane, turned the corner, walked a block and turned a second corner. She was taller than me. She walked fast. I cantered to stay at her side. She kept her eyes forward. I attempted, and failed, to compose some speech that explained my feelings to us both.

I forced myself not to pant as we entered the coffee shop. She went straight to a table near the rear, wedged in the corner beneath a steep staircase. She sat facing the door and held her hands, one in the other, pressed under the roll of her tummy. She wore a plain black dress, the sort worn by Greek widows, black tights and sensible shoes. Her face showed she was short of sleep but I knew that. We both were.

A waitress placed two glasses of water on the table. Other tables in the shop were occupied by suits, even the women looked like businessmen on the make. Only the waitress looked comfortable within her skin. A ochre apron stretched from her shins to her waist. Above it she wore a Peter Pan blouse with the top button loose. As she leaned over our table I glimpsed the hollow of her sternum.

She looked me directly in the face. I asked for a cappuccino and muffin. It wasn't the answer to the question in her eyes and they hung on me for a long few heartbeats before she turned from our table. She didn't ask my companion what she would be drinking.

The smell of warm pastries mixed with that of exhausts and dust from the street. The morning was already heating up and I wondered if I should have dressed more lightly. My mind wandered. My eyes drifted over the posters on the walls, half reading them. A line came to me from the CD I'd played the night before — “you can drive out nature with a pitchfork but it always comes roaring back again.”

“My name's Amelia.” As I said it my spine straightened and my stomach pulled in as I tried to live up to the girlishness of it.

“Sara.” She spoke to her knees. They were touching. Her voice was soft.

The waitress returned with my cappuccino and muffin. She brought just a flat white for Sara. She gave me a brief dirty look. I knew she wanted it to be longer.

I tried again. “Have you lived long at your place?” The question was clumsy. Ungrammatical or illogical? I wanted to parse it. I forced myself to stay in the moment. It felt like a reward when, after a pause, she raised her eyes to mine.

“There's nothing wrong in what I do.”

A weight lifted from my chest that she wasn't judging my voyeurism of the night before. Then I felt the burden of being made the judge. I might have been ten years older, no more. Was that how mothers felt? Hers? Mine?

Was it judgement I had felt?

When first I heard her I had thought she were inside my place. That thought had frozen me where I was in the bathroom, sitting upon the toilet about to relieve my bladder. My pussy had still tickled as my heart fluttered and my commonplace urgency was overwhelmed by fear. Realising that she, and the people with her, were not in the building I had felt relief.

Later, as their noise continued outside my bedroom window, I had laid in my bed and my thoughts. I knew what they were doing. Sleep stayed away as I played their games through my mind.

The woman would be on her knees or back. Rarely she might be comfortable on a chair. If she were new to the game she might wear bra and panties or a bikini. Later the urge to have everywhere accessible would have her naked.

The men would all know the rules. She was the boss; she said who went when and how close. Their relationships were with her; they wouldn't know each other well enough to egg each other on. They might not know each other at all. Where would she find such men?

Perhaps I felt jealousy. I raised my coffee to my face. Her eyes were still upon my face. We were not in the town of my growing up. Not even of my university education. I wondered if it were her's.

I had come to the city at the start of my professional life and had told myself it was also the beginning of my adult life. I forced myself to leave the past behind and got on with climbing the corporate ladder. Amazingly, I discovered that my personal life was not much different to work. In either case I was fucked, fucked with and fucked over. I was never in control.

I let my cup drop from my lips. Quietly, I said, “I don't judge you. Not even a little.” Then sipped again the cooling coffee.

I remembered my student years. I remembered my nickname, “Teamster”. I remembered the sense of power. I wanted to touch myself.

Men are so in themselves. I remembered the sense of power, visceral, between my thighs as men around me masturbated to just the physical presence of me lying on the ground before them. I might choose to open my legs or not. If I chose I would spread the lips within, two or all. On occasions I had rested on my knees and chest and, with my hands, spread the cheeks of my arse to them. Other times I was upright on my knees.

Whatever I did, it was the men who were wanton. It was they who exploded with sexual need, spraying their seed across my body — over my tits and belly and sex and bush; into my face and hair and hands and mouth; onto my arse and throat and toes; wherever I wanted.

I felt the tickle of moisture between my legs and shifted in my seat. The smell of sex mixed with that of coffee. I thought I might have imagined it.

Her eyes slowly widened. “Would you,” she was tentative, “like to play with me?”


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