A Strong Coffee and a Cigarette
He had a blind date at 8pm that night.
He
woke at some ungodly hour with a feeling of floating anxiety that he could not
identify. After a minute, he remembered his night out with the lads the
previous Thursday. He had, in his drunken merriment, agreed to meet Maureen, a
friend of Gerry’s sister whose marriage had fallen apart rather spectacularly.
The
inadvisability of this bold move and the disquiet it had generated had lain
mostly dormant over the days since, except perhaps for moments when he was
alone, snuggled up to the smiling photographed face of Lizzie; his recently
deceased wife.
‘You don’t mind, do you, love?’ he had
asked her when his conscience jabbed at him. ‘You wouldn’t want me to spend the
rest of my life alone, would you?’
She
always smiled back at him so benignly. He tended to forget it was only two
months since he had buried her.
The
alcohol and weed had come quickly after the funeral and had benumbed him enough
to allow him carry on with his life without the grieving process but he ached
for company, for the tenderness of a woman to warm his cold and overlarge bed.
He had leapt at the chance to meet Maureen, now that her husband had been
jailed for ABH.
This
morning he found himself lamenting his impetuous decision. He had no appetite
for breakfast and made do with a strong coffee and a cigarette.
His
drive to work was gruelling, as the schools had just reopened after the summer.
The neurotic parents blocked the roads in an attempt to deliver their precious
cargoes to their places of learning, so defying the paedophiles and abductors
that they believed lurked in every gateway along their children’s paths.
The
Tuesday Morning Shop Meeting only served to increase his mental agitation.
There was talk of auditors and redundancies, even the closure of the entire
shop.
He
had no appetite for lunch. Despite the gloom that hung over the workplace, his
mind was preoccupied inventing witty and charming lines of conversations that
might woo Mrs Maureen McKeever that evening over dinner at the exclusive
restaurant he had booked for them. He felt sure that she would be impressed
with his choice. He settled for a strong coffee and a cigarette.
An
unpleasant incident with a dissatisfied customer in the afternoon left him
feeling tired, emotional, and precariously close to the edge. His supervisor
had told him that he ought to have handled the situation better. He was given a
written warning and he found himself doubting his ability to communicate
properly.
The
rush hour traffic plagued him and he thought of all those individuals scurrying
home to their loved ones and the open, welcoming arms of their tired but happy
children. He thought again of Maureen and if he played it correctly, how he might
have someone to welcome him home once again. The thought calmed him a little
but he was ever aware of his churning stomach, racing heart and his palms in
their state of permanent dampness struggling to keep a grip on the steering
wheel.
As
he finally entered his house, he had no appetite for a strong coffee or a
cigarette and as for Lizzie; he could not even bring himself to look at her.
He
fumbled and juggled with the soap in the shower and the shampoo got into his
eyes, stinging them with the ferocity of forty angry hornets. His hands shook
so violently that he could hardly dry himself and the razor slipped and cut his
top lip as he was shaving. After he had dressed himself with the ineptitude of
a toddler, he thought that a strong coffee and a cigarette might soothe his
fractious nerves. They only made him feel sick and gave him a thundering
headache.
What
was he doing? Surely, he should abort this crazy mission. See what it was doing
to him! He found the crumpled paper with Maureen’s mobile number on it and
reached out for his phone. His eyes sought Lizzie’s photo for reassurance that
he was doing the right thing. Alas, she seemed to be telling him that it was too
late to cancel. Maureen would have spent the day preparing for their date;
planning what to wear and even now would be carefully arranging her hair and
applying her make-up. She would be so disappointed.
He
bemoaned the fact that he needed to stay focussed and lucid when all he wanted
was a large whiskey and a spliff. He settled for a strong coffee and a
cigarette that could not touch his overwhelming apprehension.
He
misplaced his car keys and turned the place over in order to find them,
creating more chaos in his usually neat and orderly life. When he eventually
found them, lying right in front of him, he was running ten minutes late.
Sweating and shaking, palpitations and breathlessness seizing him, he drove
like a demented bluebottle to the restaurant in its lavish surroundings. He
arrived at precisely eight o’clock.
Breathing
hard and struggling to rectify his dishevelled appearance, he glanced nervously
around trying to seek out Mrs McKeever. Thankfully, she had not arrived yet. He
was shown to his table and promptly ordered a strong coffee, which he took
outside with him and had a cigarette.
At
nine o’clock, he ordered another and at ten, he stood with the overfed smokers
on the street whilst they enjoyed their post-repast cigarettes. At half past ten,
the embarrassed waiter came to ask him if he would like to order as the kitchen
was about to close. He declined and ordered a large cognac. He sat with his
eyes fixed to the heavy damask tablecloth and shining array of cutlery and
glassware. He could not bear to witness the looks of sympathy and mirth that
came in pulses from every occupied table.
At
quarter to eleven, he ordered a strong coffee and stood alone in the rain with
his cigarette. After he had stubbed it out and thrown it carelessly into the
road, he paid his bill and drove home, with an empty heart and an emptier
stomach, to his smiling Lizzie, his coffee maker and a brand new packet of
cigarettes.
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