I never intended to stay as a coffee barista. It was a part-time job to earn some money whilst I was at university; but when Billy left, I found myself agreeing to step into his shoes. He was a full-time staff member, and handed in his notice to go and work for Starbucks; a month before I was due to return home. Nancy, the old lady who managed the shop, was always grumbling that, “Commercialism will be the ruin of traditional businesses,” so I felt inclined to prove my loyalty by becoming his replacement.
I think it was mainly because I did the job efficiently that they decided to ask me, as it can’t have been due to my customer skills. I’m not at all rude. If someone asks me a question I’ll answer; I just don’t see the point of idle chit-chat. If a punter comes in alone, they either need a quick caffeine hit or have business to attend to. If there’s more than one of them, then they come in to talk to each other, not some guy who serves them coffee.
I think that’s why Cleo was different. She always came in alone, but when she ordered her coffee, there didn’t seem to be a purpose as to why she wanted it. She often left half the cup, so clearly wasn’t desperate for energy, and there was never a hint that she came in to do anything other than stare out of the window. I know some people enjoy people-watching, but with the café being situated down a little alley, there was a distinct lack of people to watch.
After that first encounter, she came in a few times a week for the next month, at least when I was working. I was curious to see if she came in when I wasn’t, but Nancy was nosy enough about my private life as it was, so I didn’t want to give her further ammunition. It wasn’t like that anyway. We never said any more than we did the first time, except that after a couple of weeks I stopped asking what she wanted, as she always ordered the same: black coffee, no sugar.
I started looking forward to her arrival each day, despite our stunted conversation. It was always quiet around that time, and I had things to prepare for closing up, so I could often hear her faint breathing as I walked past with dirty cups and plates, or catch a glimpse in her bag as I mopped the floor around her. I wasn’t intentionally prying, I just found myself curious to know more about her, imagining what questions I would ask if our interaction ever led to more than pleasantries.
I noticed that she often had a ring-bound notebook and file in her bag, so I thought that she could be a student of some kind; she certainly looked the right age. I gradually created a picture of her life in my head that I backed up with shaky evidence. Her nails were painted black, but they were bitten short, so she didn’t seem too conscious of her appearance to give up a bad habit. She also had a new twenty pound note in her purse each time she bought a coffee, so she had some sort of income that was relatively high for someone who appeared to be a student.
Probably the thing that intrigued me the most was something that I didn’t notice straight away. On that first visit she had gestured for me to take the money from her purse when paying, and when I held out the change to place it in her hand, she waited until I dropped it back into the coin compartment. She had also moved her feet under the table when I walked past, to eradicate the chance of my shoes touching hers. It wasn’t until her third visit that I realised that this had happened each time she came into the café; she seemed incapable of bodily contact. I took this as a sign that she was essentially a loner, and because of that, I wanted to talk to her.
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