SNAPSHOTS: The woman at the cafe

A post that Lilly at http://www.lillyslife.com wrote over the Christmas/New Year holidays reflecting on conversations ‘overheard during the festive season’ reminded me of the importance (especially as a writer) of ‘active observational and listening skills’ i.e. being keen observers of the world around us! This short piece was written (some time ago) while I sat people watching at a Starbucks cafe in Birmingham – an activity I so enjoy doing as I love creating stories around the people I encounter through my eyes and imagination (smile). It fascinates me the glimpses or snapshots we get of people's lives (in this way) - real or imagined or fabricated (lol)! I often wonder what story would be written about me if I were the one being observed in this way (giggle)!

The woman at the café

She orders a skinny latte and settles herself at a corner table, overlooking the honey stones of St Martin’s and the aluminium-bubbles of Selfridges. She rises again – as if an afterthought – and unbuttons her knee-length coat, revealing a dark striped skirt-suit. Underneath, a marigold blouse, its frills spill out of her suit-jacket, which she also unfastens, removes, and hangs over her coat. Taking her seat again – cross-legged and boasting three-inch heels – she rummages through a large leather handbag and pulls out a mini-glossy: Vogue. Her latte arrives and she caresses the mug absent-mindedly, while flicking through the magazine. After a few minutes, she takes a delicate sip. I notice her face, heart-shaped; it whispers that she’s forty-something. The mannequin-stretch of skin over sinew declares a daily gym routine – more Esporta babe, than L.A. Fitness.

Suddenly, her phone rings. I recognise the Escala signature ringtone. Half closing her magazine, she picks up the call. Leaning into the phone, her long hair falls around her shoulders in cascades of chestnut-brown. She listens, and then responds. As the conversation continues, she has stopped taking sips from her drink and begins to tap the table edge, as if playing an imaginary keyboard; her nails are neat, well-manicured. The call ends and her fingers freeze. There is a strange look on her face, tight – somewhat agitated. Her blue eyes have darkened. They turn and stare out of the glass panes. The evening sun has faded inviting the shadows, so I cannot tell what it is she is looking at – if anything. She remains rigid for several seconds. Then, without warning, she collects her bag for a second time, from the floor, and begins to search for something. She empties its contents on the table, around her drink, and on top of the now abandoned magazine. A couple of things fall to the floor: a lipstick, an inhaler. She lets out a curse under her breath as she retrieves them. She starts to inspect each object, paying close attention to the paper items. Halfway through, she pauses – opens up a slim glasses-case and puts on her designer pair before carrying on with her search. Her lips are pursed. When the waiter comes to ask if she wants anything more – she is abrupt, with a terse nod of her head. After many minutes of frantic movement, she stops. Her whole body visibly shakes and she allows her bowed head to be cushioned in her hands. She doesn’t make a sound but her trembling body tells the story of someone awash with some curious grief. After a time, as if remembering her public surroundings, she straightens herself and picks up a napkin. With it, she wipes her eyes and blows her nose. Her breathing calm again, she tidies her face using a small decorative mirror – a gift from her mother, or a lover? She touches up her pale cheeks with a foundation brush and applies some lipstick, strawberry-rouge. By this time, she is sporting a forced smile. Raising one hand to the air she motions to the waiter. I think she is going to request the bill, instead she asks for another skinny latte.

By Catherine Mark-Beasant